


Unfinished Business

by RemindMeWhoIAm



Series: Lawyer, General, Vigilante [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Crossover, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Abuse, Explicit Language, Gen, Hallucinations, Other, Pregnancy, Suicide, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 10:18:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 54
Words: 106,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8620702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemindMeWhoIAm/pseuds/RemindMeWhoIAm
Summary: It doesn't end when you blow up the bad guys.  That's just the beginning of a long, hard road, whether you're seeking closure, forgiveness, or revenge.Sequel to Out of TimeCOMPLETE





	1. Cinderella Waltz

**Author's Note:**

> One thing that always drove me nuts about the Fallout 4 canon is that there is *never* any mention of the SS's other family/loved ones besides Shaun and the spouse. This is my attempt to remedy that and to explore the possible after-effects of the main story lines in 3 & 4.

**Quincy, Christmas Day 2055**

     “Just one more left, Nora.”

     The little girl’s eyes lit up as George handed her a small box wrapped in bright red paper.

     “What is it?” she asked, auburn pigtails bouncing.

     “It’s a surprise, silly,” George replied, tugging one of the pigtails affectionately. “Open it and you’ll find out.”

     He sat back in his armchair and watched as Nora tore into the paper, then let out a delighted gasp when she saw what was underneath.  It was a silver music box, about the size of a small book, gilded with vines of roses and delicate scrollwork.  On the lid, her name was engraved in gentle calligraphy – _Honoria Renee_.

     “Grandpa, it’s so pretty!”

     “Open it up, sweet pea.”

     She lifted the lid obediently, eyes glittering at the tiny ballerina that popped up and began to spin to Cinderella’s waltz.

     “You can put all your special treasures in there,” George said, returning her smile. “There’s a little key on the bottom, so you can keep it secret if you want, too.”

     Nora pried the little key from its place and inspected it, still grinning from ear to ear. “Do you have a ribbon?” she asked, “I want to wear it around my neck.”

     “Ask your grandma,” George replied, “I’m sure she’s got plenty left over from wrapping presents.”

     Nora stood, cradling the box to her chest, and threw her free arm around George.  He closed his eyes and hugged her tight, not wanting to let her go.  She tolerated his clinging for a long minute and then wiggled away.

     “Can we go build a snowman?”

     “Maybe in a bit,” George said, “Go get your ribbon and then help your mother set the table for dinner.”

     She smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Grandpa.  I love you.”

     “I love you too, Nora.  Forever and ever.”

 

**South Boston, January 2074**

     “I don’t know what to do, Grandpa.”

     She could hear him shift and huff a breath on the other end of the line.

     “You just got to give him his space, sweet pea,” he said, “Just be there.  He’ll come around.”

     “He’s…different.”

     “I know,” he said, “You should be more worried if he _doesn’t_ seem different after coming back from war.”

     Nora leaned against the vanity, fingering the edges of her music box, the phone cradled between her head and shoulder.  Nate had been gone for close to six hours, having stormed out of the apartment after yelling at her for accidentally dropping a ceramic plate in the kitchen.

     “Someone’s out looking for him, right?”

     “Yeah,” Nora replied, shifting to glance out the snowy window. “A friend of mine in the police department.”

     “They aren’t going to make a federal case out it, are they?” George asked, his voice dropping in concern. “Because a soldier getting arrested…that’s not going to look good.”

     “It’s just one person,” Nora replied, “Nick Valentine.  He’s off-duty tonight, but I can trust him to keep everything quiet.”

     “Good.”

     Nora let out a shaky breath and stared out the window, lifting the lid on her music box.  The tinkling sound of the Nutcracker theme filled the room, lulling away some of her anxiety.

     “Call me in the morning, alright?” George said, “This old man’s got to get some sleep.”

    

     Nora wasn’t sure how much time passed before Nate walked back in the door, but she had begun to drift off with her music box on the bedside table, head pillowed on her arm.  She jumped when she heard the soft click of the door and then he was there, sliding into bed next to her, arms encircling her, pressing kisses to her face and murmuring rushed apologies.

     “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered against her hair, “I’m so sorry.”

     “You scared me, Nate.”

     “I know,” he said, “I won’t do it again.  I promise.”

     Nora let him hold her, feeling tiny against his newly-muscular chest, breathing in the smells of the city on his shirt.  His skin was ice cold; she remembered then that he’d left without his coat.

     “You’re freezing,” she said, “Get under the covers.  Do you want anything?”

     “Do we have anymore Gwinnett?”

     “No,” Nora lied, fairly certain that alcohol wasn’t a great idea at the moment.  She’d have to get up before him and dump the last two bottles shoved into the back of the fridge.

     “Just stay here with me.”

     Nora nodded and wiggled under the blanket with him, still fully-clothed, her music box continuing to play as they drifted off to sleep together.

 

**Egret Tours Marina, Spring 2288**

     Nora shook out her sleeping bag, sending bits of dust and dirt flying into the late afternoon air.  Her Power Armor was abandoned nearby, the chest plate scratched and the paint peeling along the boots where it had been partially-submerged in a puddle of radioactive goo. 

     “How’s that scorpion sting?”

     Nora shrugged as Hancock came back up the stairs. “Smarts a little still, but it’s not bad.”

     “Let me take a look at it.”

     “You just want an excuse to see me naked, Mr. Mayor.”

     Hancock smiled at her but the concern in his onyx eyes was still obvious. “Unless it also managed to nab you in the ass, all you gotta take off is the shirt, Sunshine.”

     “It’s fine,” Nora insisted, looking away as she settled into her sleeping bag.  She tried not to flinch but was pretty sure he noticed.

     “Let me look, or I’ll ‘waste’ a Stimpak on you once you fall asleep.”

     Nora huffed. “Fine.  But it’s not really a big deal.”

     “We’ll see about that,” Hancock replied, “Here, lie back.”

     Nora did as he said, arms above her head and eyes squeezed shut as Hancock examined the wound.  The radscorpion had managed to get her right in the side, slipping between her plates of Power Armor and leaving behind a bloody puncture wound as wide around as her thumb.  It was situated on her left side, just below her ribcage, the tissue around inflamed and bright red.

     “Doesn’t look deep,” Hancock said after a moment, pulling back. “I’ll clean it out and cover the hole for you so it doesn’t get nasty.  Want some Med-X?”

     “Yeah.  There’s some in the front pocket of my bag.”

     As he worked, Nora kept her eyes closed tight and tried to think of anything but the way his calloused fingers felt against her skin, how impossibly gentle he was when she knew those same hands had also handled shotguns and combat knives with familiarity and ease.  She took a deep breath and hummed to herself.  It was getting harder and harder to tell herself she _didn’t_ have anything more than platonic appreciation for those hands.

     “What song is that?”

     Nora opened her eyes and glanced over at Hancock. “It’s something I used to dance to when I was little,” she said, “Cinderella’s waltz.”

     “It’s nice.”

     Nora felt her stomach flood with warmth and hoped she wasn’t blushing. “My grandfather gave me this music box when I was about eight,” she said, “When I lifted the lid, it would play the waltz.  I kept it so long that the melody is kind of ingrained into me.”

     “I still have trouble imagining you as a sweet little girl listening to music boxes.”

     “Yeah,” Nora replied softly, sudden sadness blotting away the warmth she’d felt. “Grandpa probably wouldn’t recognize me anymore.”

 

**Red Rocket Minuteman Settlement, Spring 2289**

     The doors to the old shed popped open with a rusty screech, the cut lock falling into the dust.  Danse set the bolt cutters aside and dragged the doors open further, coughing a little as the musty stench of decay hit his nose.  A skeleton dressed in dry-rotted rags was propped in the corner, a knife on the ground nearby.  Beside it was a metal toolbox and an empty brown bottle.

     Danse knelt and opened the toolbox, glancing through the contents for anything useful.  A note tucked into the side was addressed to “Jack” and mentioned something about making it to Diamond City with some loot, but the ink was too smudged and faded to make out much.  Danse pushed it aside and kept looking.  At the bottom of the box, a glint of silver caught his eye.

     It was a silver box of some sort, a little scratched and tarnished, decorated with raised flowers.  Danse pulled it out and inspected it.  It was prewar, obviously, possibly looted from one of the houses in Sanctuary or Concord.  He wiped dust off the lid and squinted at the engraving.  It was hard to make out, but it looked like a name – _Honoria_.

     He lifted the lid, the broken lock wiggling under his fingers.  A tiny ceramic figurine popped up and the box began playing a tinny classical tune.  The inside was lined with polished wood and filled with strange odds and ends – two long white ribbons folded together, a dirty copper coin, a gold chain and cross, and other random objects.  At the bottom of the box was a small pen, black enamel with a wide nib. It was engraved like the box, with a recognizable name this time – _Nora Wilson, Esq._

 

     Hancock watched Nora with growing concern as she sat with Shaun going through the objects in her music box and explaining each item’s significance.  The little smile had not dropped from her face, but he’d been with her long enough to see the falseness behind it.  She’d been astonished and delighted when Danse offered her the little box and told her how he’d found it stashed in an old shed at the Red Rocket; however, the delight was starting to fade into a kind of wistful sadness he’d not seen her wear since that first day they’d chatted about her missing son in Goodneighbor.

     “What are the ribbons from?” Shaun asked, running a finger along one.

     “Those are from my first big ballet performance,” she said, “I was _en pointe_ for the first time so I took the ribbons off my shoes and kept them to remember it.”

     “And the pen?”

     “Your dad gave me that when I graduated law school,” Nora replied, “And this necklace belonged to your grandmother.”

     “What about this?”

     Shaun rubbed his thumb over the little copper coin, wiping away two hundred years of grime.  Nora took it and turned it over in her palm, brow furrowed.

     “My dad gave me this when I was really little,” she said, “It was minted the year I was born.”

     She dropped the coin back into the box and closed it with a loud snap.  Hancock winced.

     “Shaun, why don’t you go look for Dogmeat,” he said, “Take your sister, yeah?”

     Shaun nodded and picked Anne up from the carpet where she’d been happily chewing on a rubber alien, hoisting the pudgy girl onto his hip and heading out the door with a loud whistle.  Nora watched him leave and then looked back at her music box, staring at the engraving on the lid.

     “You want to talk about it, Sunshine?”

     Nora shrugged. “Not much to talk about.”

     “I don’t mind listening, ya’ know.”

     She nodded absently, still staring into space.  He could see the tense line of her shoulders and he waited, giving her a chance to say something.  She’d agreed not to shut down or close him out anymore, but getting the words out of her was still an exercise in patience more often than not.

     “Do I have to get you high to talk to me again?” he tried to joke, shooting her his best smile.  She looked at him blankly.

     “Just wondering what happened to everyone else when the bombs hit,” she said at last, “Nate’s parents, Grandma and Grandpa.  Nick, my boss, my neighbors that didn’t go to the Vault.”

     Hancock nodded, not sure how to respond.  “They’re most likely all dead” would probably have put even more of a damper on the afternoon.

     “You remember that kid we found in the fridge once?” Nora asked suddenly, “Billy  He’d gone ghoul.”

     “Outside Quincy?  Yeah.”

     “His parents, the Peabodys…they were my grandparents’ neighbors.”

     “Oh?”

     “Yeah, they moved in next door when I was in college,” she said, “Billy was about Anne’s age.  I babysat him a few times.”

     “Why didn’t you mention that to them way back when?” Hancock asked, brow furrowed.

     “I didn’t think they’d believe I was actually Nora the babysitter from next door, two-hundred-plus years old and leading a militia through the post-nuclear wasteland.”

     “Stranger things have happened.”

     Nora didn’t respond, just stood up from the couch and took the music box, disappearing down the hallway with it.  Hancock heard the squeak of hinges and then she returned a moment later.  The sadness was gone – or at least cleverly hidden – and she was scraping her auburn hair back from her face into a long braid.

     “I’m going to go work on that malfunctioning turret,” she said, picking up a tool belt near the door.  Hancock started to remind her that she’d fixed that turret two days ago but she was gone before he could.


	2. Judgments

     The Third Rail was smoky and lively, patrons filling the void with chatter and raucous laughter while Magnolia took a smoke break.  The singer leaned against the bar and tapped the ash from her cigarette, smiling indulgently at the young man chugging his way through his third Bobrov’s.

     “By God, I love this town,” he gasped, slamming the empty bottle down on the bar. “That is some high-quality shit.  Haven’t had it that good in fuckin’ ages.  Where do they brew it?  I wanna buy ‘em out.”

     “Over in Diamond City,” Magnolia replied, eyebrows lifted in amusement. “You might have some trouble with that, though.  Our mayor’s lady is pretty fond of the Bobrov Brothers and their brew.”

     “Then I’ll buy her out, too,” the young man declared, twirling in his seat.  Magnolia took a drag off her cigarette and glanced over at his gigantic bodyguard.  The ghoul rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything.

     “Don’t worry about him, he’s got a stick of rebar permanently wedged up his ass,” the man continued, throwing the ghoul a smirk. “How about you and I grab a couple and get better acquainted away from these squares?”

     Magnolia took a long drag off her cigarette and smiled. “What’s your name?”

     “James,” the man replied with a sloppy grin, “But you can call me whatever you like, Angel.”

     “Well, I’m flattered, James, but I’ve got a date already,” she answered, nodding back to the lit stage. “Don’t get yourself into too much trouble.”

     With that, she sashayed back to the microphone.  James sighed and his bodyguard let out a small laugh barely disguised as a cough.

     “Some wingman you are.”

     “You didn’t purchase my contract for that purpose.”

     “After eleven beautiful years together, Charon, you can’t give me just a _little_ help?”

     Charon seemed to think about that for a moment. “She might not have been interested because you reek of piss and cheap vodka.”

     “Thanks for the tip, buddy,” James replied dryly, fumbling in his pocket for a handful of caps. “I really enjoy these great talks we have.”

     “If you wish for me to converse with you--”

     “Yeah, yeah, yeah…”

     James left his caps on the counter and slid off the stool, slinking towards the exit with slumped shoulders.

     “I don’t think I remember the last time you left a bar before last call.”

     “What is with you?” James snapped, turning on the ghoul.  Even standing two steps up, he just barely met Charon’s gaze.

     “I’m simply making factual observations.”

     “I leave lots of bars before last call.”

     “Getting thrown out doesn’t count as ‘leaving’.”

     James narrowed his eyes but didn’t say anything.  He turned and stomped up the stairs and into the dark streets of Goodneighbor, narrowly avoiding a collision with a wobbling drifter in the process.

     “We need to get back to Megaton so I can drink myself blind at home, without you judging me.”

     “I have _always_ judged your drinking habits, regardless of location.”

     “I really hate you sometimes.”

 

     It was almost dark when Hancock decided to go look for Nora.  Codsworth had already taken Anne to her crib and Shaun was parked at the table with a book and a bowl of squirrel stew, but she had yet to reappear.  Since leveling the Institute, she was prone to these disappearances, holing herself up in various spots surrounding Sanctuary or the Castle, or wandering outside the edges of a settlement, only to sit by herself and brood.  Sometimes she drank or huffed copious amounts of Jet while alone, but more often than not she seemed to just need the quiet time and the space to regroup and she returned before long ready to talk or back to her usual self.  She’d been gone longer than usual this time, however, and despite his best efforts, he was starting to worry.

     “Slow down before you choke, kid,” he warned Shaun as the boy slurped up his stew, “If your mom comes back before I do, tell her I said to stay put, alright?”

     Shaun nodded and Hancock headed out into the waning sunshine.  He checked all of Nora’s regular hiding places first – the cellar, the armory, the little footbridge across the stream behind the settlement – but there was no sign of her.  She hadn’t been seen by any of the other settlers for a while and she wasn’t at the Red Rocket.  It wasn’t until he trudged to the cemetery on the east side of Sanctuary that he spotted her.  She was sitting near the lake’s edge, back against a tree, head down and her long legs stretched out in the dirt before her.  As he approached, she glanced up at him languidly and then went back to staring out at the water.  He counted three Jet inhalers and an empty beer bottle nearby.

     “We talked about this, you know.”

     Nora looked over at him and scowled. “Fuck off,” she snapped, words slurred. “I didn’t come out here for you to track me down so you could judge me.”

     Hancock settled into the dirt next to her. “What’s on your mind, love?”

     “If I wanted to talk, I would have stayed at home and talked.”

     Hancock nodded.  He had a pretty good idea of what she’d been out here trying her best to forget, but in all honesty, the details didn’t matter much.  It always boiled down to one of two things, grief or guilt, and sometimes both.  He’d heard it more times than he could count and although he would never stop trying to reassure her, he was running out of ideas at this point.

     Nora sighed and pulled her legs up to her chest, folding in on herself and leaning her forehead on her knees.  She glanced over at him, glassy-eyed and pink-cheeked, and then away.  She was beautiful despite her shitty mood, auburn hair glittering under the last rays of sunshine behind them.

     “Every time I feel like I’ve gotten something back from this shitty wasteland, I get reminded of everything I lost.”

     Her voice was muffled.  She inhaled slow and let the breath out heavily, looking up and staring back over the shadows on the lake.

     “Two ways to look at that scenario, Sunshine.”

     “I know, glass half-empty or glass half-full,” she replied dismissively, “Doesn’t really matter, does it?  I lose someone either way.”

     Hancock wasn’t sure what to say.  She wasn’t wrong, per se…just stubbornly refusing to think about anything but from this twisted, depressed point of view.  He knew the feeling well, had been there many times before himself, and he didn’t like the idea of waiting it out until she came back from it on her own.

     “I saw your mother in Diamond City last week,” she said suddenly, lifting her head and looking over at him. “When we spent the night at Home Plate.”

     Hancock stiffened but forced himself to nod in acknowledgement.  She knew he didn’t like this subject.

     “It amazes me how stupid you are about it,” she continued, still not looking at him. “Refusing to go see her because of some perceived guilt, John?”

     “Nora…”

     “You have family left,” she retorted, standing and brushing off her pants. “Stop running away from them, for fuck’s sake.  Not to sound like a Hallmark card or anything, but treasure what you’ve got before something takes it away.”

     With that declaration, she stomped off, leaving him sitting there feeling tired, ashamed, and confused.

 

     James woke when the sun was streaming clear and cheerful through the grimy windows of his room at the Rexford.  His head throbbed, the radio was playing some happy jazz tune, and for a moment he felt like he was being pulled into that godforsaken simulation again.  He panicked, struggling with the musty sleeping bag draped over him, until a loud metallic clunk caught his attention and situated him in the present.  Charon had cocked his shotgun.  James sighed and fell back onto the mattress.

     “What the hell did you give me last night?”

     “Nothing worse than what you treated yourself to after leaving the bar.”

     He dug the heels of his hands into his forehead and groaned. “It feels like a Super Mutant kicked me in the head.”

     “The merchant said that the drug would alleviate the symptoms of overdose and prevent you from choking to death on your own vomit,” Charon informed him, shells clinking as he counted them. “But that the hangover would not be abated.”

     “Did you buy _Addictol_ for me?”

     “Yes.”

     “Fuck, Charon, can’t you see I’m trying to kill myself with all the exotic cocktails?” James replied, raking a hand through his hair.  He was sore all over, dizzy, nauseated, and floating in a sea of self-hate. “Why would you spend good caps on that shit?  I’ve dealt before.”

     “The merchant also informed me that she sends caravans to the Capital Wastes every few weeks,” Charon continued, ignoring him. “The next one will be larger than usual and it needs extra security.”

     “Where’s it going _exactly_?  Because I’m pretty sure my ban from the Republic was lifelong --”

     “To Megaton.”

     “What’s the pay?” James perked up a little at the mention of his adopted hometown.

     “I don’t know,” Charon replied, “She’s not bankrolling the extra security, her usual mercenary is.  We have to speak with him.”

     “Okay, so where is this asshole?” James asked, sighing and reaching for his pack nearby. “Did you happen to get his name?”

     “He lives in a settlement northwest of here.  You might remember him – does the name _MacCready_ ring any bells?”

     “That little shit from Lamplight?”

     “Seems so.”

     “The last thing I wanna do is grovel for a job to that pint-sized asshole.”

     “It’s been almost twelve years,” Charon reminded him, “I doubt he’s pint-sized anymore.”

     “What about the Minutemen?” James asked suddenly, digging through his back. “I hear they're doing well around these parts and I’m tired of the mercenary bullshit.  We could be soldiers, go straight, save the world one dirt farm at a time.”

     “According to local gossip, MacCready is in pretty close with their general, so you’d probably still run into him at some point.  Does it matter?  We left Lamplight on good terms.”

     “I just don’t want to deal with people from back then,” James muttered, digging into a bag of Brahmin jerky. “Always asking questions and being weird and shit…”

     He looked away and chewed loudly.  Charon nodded.  He knew what his employer would never say out loud, that he didn’t want people to see that the Last, Best Hope of Humanity had devolved into a sweaty drunk who wandered from one bastion of civilization to the next attempting to outrun his past and/or drown it in chems and alcohol.

     “I’ll do the talking,” Charon replied after a few moments of silence between them. “You’re not exactly practiced at negotiation, anyway.”


	3. The Plan

     He’d liked her once.  When she first came to the Institute, she’d been quiet, attentive, willing to listen.  She looked a little shell-shocked, but that was to be expected, of course.  When Father had announced that he planned to make her his successor, he’d been wary at first.  She’d been out in the Commonwealth for nearly a year; how could they know that she understood their values and their goals and wouldn’t have been turned by the surface?  But, like a naïve child, he’d come to think she would make a good Director – she was strong, determined, unafraid of taking charge…

     Too bad she blew it all to shit not long after.

     When he stumbled into the Commonwealth the first time, dizzy from the Relay and astonished that she’d actually made it inside, the first thing he’d noticed was the smell.  The damp, rotting stench assaulted his senses – a strange mix of stagnant water and manure and decaying flesh – and made him gag.  He’d half-expected the Commonwealth to be a desert, dry and devoid of all but the bare minimum of life, but it was growing.  He couldn’t identify half the things he saw -- fungi that glowed even in bright sunlight, purple flowers as big as his hand that smelled strangely chemical, blood-red weeds that sprouted from pools of irradiated water – but there was definitely growth.  It was just disgusting growth, all disorganized and muddy and rife with oversized insects.

     It didn’t take him long to find a settlement, a tired scrap of land housing a dilapidated hut and a patch of scrawny vines the farmer called ‘tatos’.  It was dark, dirty, and smelly, but they let him sleep in the back room and gave him food once he identified himself as a doctor.  By the time he stumbled to the gate, his once-pristine Institute lab coat was so torn and stained no one could have guessed where he came from, but he ditched it as soon as possible anyway, opting instead for a pair of patched denim pants and a plaid shirt purchased from a passing vendor.  He told the farmer and his family that he had been a doctor in a vault, one off to the west, but they didn’t ask a whole lot of questions besides that. 

     She showed up at the settlement one day, about two months after the Institute was destroyed.  He’d been so astonished on seeing her that he could barely keep himself from staring.  She looked the same as ever, still somehow pretty despite living in the wasteland, but she didn’t seem to recognize him.  He knew he’d changed a lot living aboveground, but when he realized she didn’t know who he was, it made him irrationally angry.  She’d destroyed his home, his life, his work, her own _son_ , but she didn’t even recognize him?

     She stayed at the settlement for a few days, camped in a tent beside the tato patch, helping out with whatever projects the farmer said he needed finished.  She’d come in the company of a _ghoul_ , a black-eyed thing that looked seconds away from going feral, and even called it _John_ and ate with it when they all settled around the evening fire.  If the sight of its peeling, calloused skin and nose-less face wasn’t enough to make Clayton’s stomach turn, it also smoked like a chimney and the pockets of that ridiculous frock coat were stuffed to bursting with chem inhalers. 

     His initial anger at her and his disgust at her companion was dulled by exhaustion and cold even before she left, until he heard them in the shed one evening.  He’d gone out to gather up a few bits of wood for the fire and was passing by the door when he heard muffled voices.  She had been at the work bench when he passed the first time, fiddling with a shotgun, but when he stopped and glanced past the ajar door, he saw the shotgun abandoned alongside of pair of those red inhalers.  The voices were breathy and slurred and he caught sight of an expanse of bare flesh, heard the obscene slap of two bodies pushing together.  She was letting the ghoul touch her, letting it press mangled hands on her near-perfect prewar body, and, judging by the way he could hear her gasping and groaning, enjoying it.

     He froze there, clutching the dry logs to his chest like an infant child, aghast but unable to move.  It wasn’t even _human._ She’d destroyed something as perfect and welcoming as the Institute for _this_?  For dirty little farms and half-starved people who had never so much as seen a book in their lives, for radroaches and the constant threat of Raiders and chem-fuelled romps with desiccated once-men?  Was this really what she had insisted was worth preserving?

     Clayton had left the farm not long after that night, no longer able to keep the contempt for everyone and everything under wraps.  He found Vault 81 and rented a room there for a short time, helping in their hydroponics lab, but eventually they didn’t need him anymore and he kept hearing about her, anyway.  No matter where he went, she was there, like some dark ghost.  The General of the Minutemen, the savior of the Commonwealth, everyone’s best friend and revered leader or something.  The only people who didn’t like her were the Raiders and the Gunners, but it wasn’t like he could throw his lot in with them.

     At least, that was what he thought at first.  He wandered for several weeks and when he was finally out of places to go, out of food and ammunition for the pipe pistol he’d picked up, he found himself somewhere near the coast, standing at the threshold of a one-room hut and looking down the barrel of a large laser rifle.  The man holding it was short and squat, muscular but unattractive, his face mangled by burn scars.  He had a dirty bandana tied across his head, covering one eye, his mouth twisted at the corner.

     “What the fuck do you want?”

     Clayton let his hands drop and sighed in defeat.  He wanted peace and quiet.  He wanted to be somewhere he didn’t have to hear about her every five minutes, didn’t have to pretend he agreed she was the greatest thing to ever grace the dirt beneath their feet.  He wanted a _shower._

     When he didn’t answer right away, the scarred man poked him in the chest with his gun. “Better get the fuck out of here, pretty boy,” he snarled, “You got no business here.”

     “I just want a place to sleep,” Clayton replied, letting his pistol drop. “I’ve been walking for days…”

     The man stared suspiciously. “There’s five settlements between here and Diamond City,” he said, “Go stay at one of them.  Fuckin’ Minutemen will let anyone in.”

     At that – _fuckin’ Minutemen_ – Clayton suddenly felt like he’d found somewhere he could get his peace and quiet.

     “I don’t like them,” he said, trying not to sound like he was whining.

     “Oh, yeah?” the man asked.  He looked a little less tense but hadn’t lowered his weapon.

     “The General,” Clayton continued, “She...”

     “She’s a right fuckin’ cunt,” the man finished for him, “Took out my eye, her and one of her little shits.  A shit that _I_ trained and fed once, too.”

     He stayed there with the burned man, who introduced himself as Barnes, through the winter.  They had a mutual hate for the same woman, a hate that made them allies amongst her territories.  One had lost an eye and a career, one his home and his family.  It wasn’t long before they devised their plan.

     Father should have listened to Ayo closer – his mother had succumbed to the Wasteland and become a part of it.  She had let herself be corrupted and the evidence of her self-righteous ideals was all over the wasteland.  It was all going to burn eventually anyway.  It wasn’t any better now that she was in control and he’d make sure she went down with her ship.  She had taken away his home – he’d take everything from her.


	4. Gone Ghoul

     “You know, Sunshine, I couldn’t help but notice how close we are to Quincy.”

     Nora glanced over at Hancock. “Right.”

     “Still got some of those plasma grenades on you?” he continued, looking anywhere but at her as they walked. “We could test them on any Gunners hanging around the town.”

     “I’d prefer not.”

     “Ah, come on, where’s your adventurous spirit?”

     “It’s tired and going home for a couple nights’ decent sleep.”

     Hancock shook his head and grabbed her hand. “We have to walk right past the Peabody House one way or another.”

     Nora stopped and sighed, staring up the road that led away from Warwick.  Because of her associations with Quincy, it was hard to get Nora to come down there, but when the settlement had called for help with a Raider gang nearby, he’d jumped at the chance and managed to convince her nobody else was able to come down.  He didn’t like manipulating her, but after two weeks of her bad mood, he was ready to do anything to get her the closure she seemed to need so desperately.  If anything, getting her out of Sanctuary for a short time seemed to at least distract her enough that she wasn’t quite as snippy – amazing what blowing off heads could do for her attitude.

     “What’s the point, John?”

     “The point is to know,” he replied, “How much trouble have you gone through for me and for Tin Can to find closure, huh?”

     “His name is Danse, you know.”

     “I like ‘Tin Can’ better,” Hancock said, grinning at her. “Don’t change the subject.  My point still stands, love.  You deserve to know more than any of us.”

     “And what if they don’t know anything?” Nora asked, staring at her boots. “What if they don’t know what happened to my grandparents?  Or what if they did, and it’s as horrible as I’ve always --”

     She broke off and turned away.  Hancock pulled her to his chest, letting her bury her face in the frills of his coat.  She felt limp against him, worn and small, like someone had sucked all the fight out of her.

     “If you really don’t want to, I understand,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I just don’t want you to torture yourself with what-ifs, okay?”

     She didn’t respond right away.  After a few long moments of standing there, wrapped around each other, she let out a long breath and pulled back.

     “Their house was still boarded up the last time we went past,” she said, “Like they purposefully closed it up and left.”

     “Do you want to go take a look?”  


     She hesitated and then nodded quickly. “Might as well,” she said, “Otherwise, it’s like you said…torturing myself with all the what-ifs.”

 

     Nora stopped at the mailbox, staring at the house ahead.  It stood crookedly, the foundation half-sunken in the swamps, the last bits of blue paint clinging to a weather-worn frame.  All the windows were boarded over, the front door covered in gray two-by-fours.  A rusted patio chair sat on what Hancock guessed had once been the front lawn, covered in weeds and grime. 

     He tried to picture it for a minute, a house like the ones in those old magazines they saw amongst the debris in Fallon’s – a quaint blue house with a well-trimmed lawn and a welcome mat in front of the door, a little redhead dancing in her socks on the kitchen linoleum, a comely elderly couple seated together on the sofa and holding hands.  The very idea of it was uncomfortably foreign and immensely difficult to reconcile with the woman beside him, the one with a shotgun strapped across her back and a splash of raider blood on her boots.

     “Alright, Sunshine?”

     She looked over at him, gray eyes sad, and nodded. “Yeah,” she said, “It’s just that…I figured after so long, the memories would kind of fade some, you know?”

     “Hasn’t been as long for you as it has for the rest of the world.”

     “Don’t remind me,” she replied, shaking her head. “Fucks me up every time.  Let’s get this over with.”

     She strode purposefully up to the front steps, mounting them two at a time, and stopped at the boarded-over front door.  She kicked determinedly at them, grunting with the exertion as they splintered bit by bit.  After a few more kicks, they began to fall away, leaving a hole large enough for her to push the door open and step through.  Hancock followed, floorboards creaking under his weight.  It was dark and musty inside, silent as a tomb and just as eerie.

     “It…it hasn’t changed,” Nora breathed, staring around the room with her mouth hanging open. “John, it’s…everything’s the same.”

     It _was_ very well-preserved.  The front room was dark and dusty but otherwise untouched, a perfect time capsule of life in the moments before the bombs fell.  Nora took a few steps forward, her footsteps muffled on the faded blue rug.  At the far end of the room was a cold, empty fireplace and a cracked stone mantle crammed full of framed photos.  Nora grabbed one of them and swiped her fingers across it, wiping away years of dust and grime.

     “This is my mother,” she whispered, her voice barely audible even in the silence.  She gripped the frame tight and fell into a chair next to the fireplace, shoulders quivering.  Hancock knelt next to her, studying the photograph she held.  The woman in it was short and slender, carrying a smiling toddler on her hip.  Both had the same pretty smile and russet red hair.

     “You were cute.”

     Nora gave him a weak smile. “She didn’t like taking photos,” she said, “This must have been taken before my dad died.”

     Hancock squeezed her knee reassuringly. “I’ll look around,” he said, “Channel my inner detective.”

     She nodded mutely, fingering the edge of the frame.  He stood and took inventory of the place.  At first glance it had seemed immaculate, untouched for two centuries, but on closer inspection, there were clues here and there, evidence that someone had been living in the house for a least a little while after the bombs.  The TV had been gutted, stripped of all electronic parts and copper wiring.  There was a stack of canned pork n’ beans under the sink and a box of 10mm ammo in a dark cupboard corner.  He climbed the creaky stairs and found two bedrooms, mostly empty, and a gutted bathroom.  There was still a mattress on one bed, a hole in it patched with what looked suspiciously like a Gunner’s green bandanna.

     “Find anything?” Nora asked from behind him, “Maybe a note – ‘Hey, Nora, we died together like we wanted, love you forever’?”

     Hancock shook his head at her poor attempt at a joke. “No skeletons,” he said, “Would they have gone to a vault, maybe?  Someone lived here for a while.  And all the pictures were left behind, too.”

     “The only vaults down this way are 88 and 95,” Nora replied, “Ninety-five was for junkies and eighty-eight never got finished, remember?”

     Hancock nodded. “Well, we can ask --”

     “What the hell are you doing in here?”

     Both spun around at the voice, coming face to face with a scowling, tense Matt Peabody.  He was holding a baseball bat in one hand but relaxed when he realized who it was.

     “General Wilson,” he said, shoulders slumping. “Mayor.  Sorry, I didn’t recognize you guys.”

     “It’s alright,” Nora replied, forcing a smile. “I was actually about to come see you.”

     “Oh?”

     She took a deep breath and nodded. “I, um…I wanted to ask you…”

     She faltered, looking around the room and feeling her throat burn suddenly.  She glanced at Hancock pleadingly. 

     “We were curious,” he said, taking her hand. “You knew the people that lived here – before the war – right?”

     “George and Renee?” Matt asked, brow furrowed. “The Doyles?  Older couple?”

     Nora nodded vigorously and Matt glanced at her, frowning further.  Hancock plowed ahead.

     “Do you know what happened to them?”

     Matt nodded and sighed. “Yeah, they’re not here anymore,” he said, “Left about fifteen years ago.”

     Nora’s jaw dropped. “What do you mean, left fifteen years ago?”

     “They went ghoul like us,” Matt replied, as if they should know this. “All of us did, sitting over under the ruins where they were building that vault.”

     Nora sucked in a deep breath and felt her knees buckle.  Hancock put an arm around her waist and eased her onto the edge of the bed.

     “Are you okay?” Matt Peabody asked.  Nora sucked in another breath, looking up at him in shock and disbelief.

     “They…they became ghouls?” she asked, “George and Renee Doyle?  You’re sure?”

     “Of course I am,” Matt said, “Good chunk of the neighborhood did; it was like a damn block party down there.  But after two centuries, we were the only ones left.”

     “Why did they leave?  Do you know where they went?” Nora asked.  The questions came tumbling out, her face shining as she stared up at Matt hopefully.

     “The Gunners moved in next door,” he replied, “We’d been dealing with Raiders and mutants on and off for ages.  They didn’t want more of the same.  Heard a passing caravan mention a place down near D.C., a ghoul colony, but a little less, uh, free-wheeling than Goodneighbor.  No offense.”

     Hancock shook his head. “None taken.”

     “So they went south?”

     Matt nodded. “Yeah, soon as the caravan came back around,” he said, “I’m sorry, but you mind telling me why you’re interested in an old pair of prewar ghouls?”

     Nora swallowed and tried to smile at Matt. “Do you remember George and Renee’s granddaughter?”

     He frowned and blinked slowly. “Yeah, I think so,” he said, “Nice girl…a lawyer, I think.  You actually kind of remind me of her.  She used to visit a lot…”

     “Nora,” she said, “She was a prosecutor in the south precinct.  Husband in the military.”

     “Right.”

     “I’m her,” Nora replied, “I’m Nora.”


	5. Retaliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty dark chapter. Torture and violence because I have a sick mind. Reader beware.

     Every night it was a different dream.  His actual memories had long since faded away to little more than bits and pieces of sound and color, but, like his own mind was trying to torture him, he dreamed up things whenever he happened to fall asleep.  It was simple stuff, like him sitting on the front porch with a baby on his lap while Renee worked in her garden, waving at passing cars and pedestrians.  The baby changed; he could tell who by the color of its eyes – sometimes Jane, her hazel eyes so much like Renee’s, other times it was Nora with her soft gray ones, now and again it was Shaun, his dark and intelligent like his father’s.  He would bounce the baby on his knee, hands carefully cradling the soft, pudgy flesh, and smile to himself thinking how lucky he was.

     Tonight, though, there were no babies.  Just Renee, sitting across from him at the table, smiling and pretty.  There was a steaming pot between them, a rich chowder that smelled like clams and sweet potatoes and heavy cream.  He could remember those smells perfectly, all the things Renee cooked up, just like he could remember the odor of rubber tires on asphalt and the delicate floral scent of Nora’s perfume. 

     Now, though, waking up with his back against a bullet-ridden concrete wall, the only things he saw and smelled were degenerates and their unwashed, dirt-caked bodies.  He glanced down at the plate of mirelurk on his lap and sighed in disgust, pushing it away.  Lyssa and the rest had hauled the nasty creatures out of a flooded cave nearby and celebrated their good fortune, but he’d been unable to choke down more than a few pieces before drifting off.  Now the cold, slimy cakes just added to the stench of the mill.

     One of Lyssa’s dogs came snuffling over, scarfing down his leftovers as soon as it realized he wasn’t going to shoo it away.  He stood and stretched a little, his joints creaking like ancient machine parts in desperate need of oil.  Stretching did little to ease the pain, but it was a habit he couldn’t turn off.

     “Deimos!”

     He turned to the voice, one of Lyssa’s newer acquisitions, and scowled. “What now?”

     “We got one,” she said, eyes glinting evilly in the torch light. “A Knight.  Come see.”

     He followed her out to the courtyard, which was lit up in a brilliant blaze of torches and garbage can fires, to the ring of people in the center.  They parted when he appeared, revealing their prize – a Brotherhood knight, stripped down to his orange suit, on his knees with his hands tied behind his back.  Lyssa stood next to him, torch in one hand and the Knight’s holotags in the other.

     “Caught him and his buddies skulking around,” she informed George, smiling. “Got the rest penned up, but I figured you’d want to have some fun with this trash.”

     The Knight looked up at him, the hatred on his face palpable.  George knelt, forearms resting on his knees so they were eye-to-eye.

     “What’s your name, soldier?”

     “Fuck you.”

     “Attitude gets you nowhere, son,” George replied, “But, then again, not like you got many places to go, huh?”

     The Knight glared but didn’t respond.  George looked over at Lyssa.

     “What do his tags say?”

     “Knight Marcus Morgan,” she replied, “Designation MS-818K.”

     George nodded. “Knight Morgan,” he said, “Did you just happen to stumble unto our party here or were you looking for something?”

     Again, the Knight only answered with silence and hateful stares.  George stood and glanced over at the pens; as Lyssa had said, there were three more Brotherhood members caged up, each guarded by a separate ghoul.  No Paladin this time, just a pair of Scribes and what looked like an Initiate.

     “Bring that one over here,” he said, pointing to the Initiate.  The ghoul guarding her nodded and unlocked the cage, hauling the Initiate over by the collar and dumping her next to the Knight.  She was pale and trembling, a scrawny girl with mouse-brown hair and wide, fearful eyes.

     “Now, Knight Morgan,” he said, looking away from the Initiate. “You might have guessed that we here don’t like the Brotherhood very much.”

     “Please, let us go,” the Initiate interrupted, groveling on her knees. “We were lost, we weren’t trying to hurt anyone --”

     “Shut up,” George snapped, then turned back to the Knight. “How many ‘cleansing’ missions have you been on since you joined up, huh?  A dozen?  Two dozen?”

     “Plenty,” the Knight spat at him, “That’s our job.  Ridding the wasteland of disgusting mutants.”

     George sighed. “Kids today,” he muttered, “Do they not teach you anything but how to shoot stuff up that Citadel of yours?  No history?  No common sense?”

     The Initiate sniffled.  George glanced over at her before continuing. “You’re too brainwashed to listen to the history part about cleansing and genocide, but let me give you fucks a lesson in common sense,” he said, “People come back for revenge when you take everything from them.”

     He held out a hand to Lyssa.  She pulled a large lead pipe from her belt and handed it to him, sparking an uproar of cheering and hooting from the assembled circle.

     “You idiots shut up, too,” he ordered, shaking his head. “Now, Morgan, I’m pushing three hundred years in this world.  I was old when those bombs fell and I expected to die.  Maybe not right away, but eventually.  Instead, I turned into this.”

     He gestured to himself. “My wife also went ghoul.  A couple friends, too.  Nothing we could do about it; it just happened.  Assholes have called me every damn you could think of.  Didn’t care much until just a few years ago.”

     “Deimos…” Lyssa gave him a look.  She was getting less and less patient with his rambling, but he ignored her and continued.

     “Your kind – a Brotherhood knight and his squad – went on a ‘cleansing’ spree in some of the old tunnels underneath the city.  Little more than ten years ago.  Laser rifles and everything.  It was a damned massacre of ghoul blood.  Feral, maybe, but one or two of them were people I knew.  People who were nothing more than victims of a war everyone else has somehow forgotten.  One of them was my wife.”

     He stood and gripped the lead pipe, then brought it crashing down over the Initiate’s head.  She screamed and fell, blood dripping over her face and into the dirt.  The Knight lunged forward, spitting in anger, but George brought the pipe across his face as well.  Not as hard this time, but blood and spit went flying and the Knight collapsed next to his Initiate, who was perfectly still.

     “They promoted that asshole,” George continued, “Called him a _paladin_ for his bravery and his devotion to the Brotherhood.  For killing human beings who just happened to be sick, who looked different.  It’s the same run-around every hundred years of so – blacks, Jews, Communists, ghouls, mutants, synths.  It’s all the same.”

     He swung the lead pipe a third time, this time onto the Knight’s back as he tried to push himself up.

     “I don’t expect human nature will ever change,” he said over the jeers of the crowd around him, “We’re designed to hate people who are different.  We’re also designed to retaliate against those who hurt us.”

     He shook blood off the pipe and handed it back to Lyssa. “For a long time I didn’t retaliate.  But now I got nothing else to do but that.”

     The Knight looked up at him.  His jaw was broken and his face was swollen and bloody, skin pale underneath all the dark red.  George stood and turned away.

     “Let your dogs have him, Lyssa,” he ordered, pushing back through the crowd.  He walked back towards the mill as the crowd cheered and the dogs growled and snapped in eager anticipation.


	6. Adventure

     “Preston, she’s beautiful,” Nora exclaimed as he handed her the little blanketed bundle with a proud smile, “Did you decide on a name yet?”

     “I think Lucy’s pretty much settled on Hazel,” Preston replied, “I like it.”

     “Pretty name for a pretty girl,” Nora said, running a thumb over the infant’s soft brown cheek. “Baby Hazel.  How is Lucy doing?”

     “Good,” Preston replied, “Everything went really well with Haylen here.  How was it down at Warwick?”

     “Ah, same old same old,” Nora said, shrugging as she rocked Hazel gently. “Raiders are like radroaches, you know?”

     “Always a new infestation somewhere.”

     “Exactly.”

     Preston nodded. “How about Quincy?  Heard you guys stopped in.”

     “Seriously?  We’ve been back for like, eight hours,” Nora replied in exasperation, “Is there a secret radio frequency just for gossip that I don’t know about?”

     “Hancock stopped me on rounds last night,” Preston replied, smiling sheepishly at her. “Told me what happened and said you needed some convincing.  He also told me to be subtle, but I’m not very good at that.”

     Nora sighed. “I don’t need to be convinced.  I’m going to make the trip, of course…just not right away.”

     “Can I ask why?”

     “Well, I can’t very well foist my Minuteman responsibilities off on you again, especially since you’ve got Hazel now,” Nora said, “And I’m not sure I want to leave Shaun and Anne for that long.”

     “Fair enough,” Preston replied, “But you know, with Danse working the patrols now, there are a lot fewer calls coming in.  Hancock actually intercepted the call from Warwick specifically to get you down that direction…”

     “I appreciate you tattling on my ghoul,” Nora interrupted, shaking her head. “But it’s a really long trip and there are still my kids.”

     “Understandable,” Preston replied, “But you do leave them here with Codsworth whenever you have to go out and they’re just fine.”

     “For two weeks at a time,” Nora argued, “At most.  And I’m always in radio range, not hundreds of miles away in unknown territory.”

     Preston nodded. “Alright.  Just remember that whenever you decide you want to go, we’ll work it out so nothing gets neglected.”

     “I appreciate it,” Nora replied, “I really do.”

     Hazel squirmed in her arms and let out a pitiful wail, lips smacking as she twisted her head back and forth in search of a latch.

     “Looks like she needs Mommy again,” Nora said, smiling and handing her back to Preston. “Take the night off, okay?  You look like you could use it.”

     She kissed his cheek and left, heading back up the main road through Sanctuary.  Outside of his workshop, Sturges flagged her down with a wave.

     “When are you guys leaving?”

     “Leaving?”

     “Heard you were going down to the Capital Wastes on personal business.”

     Nora resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “We haven’t decided yet,” she said, “Why, did you need something?”

     “Not really,” Sturges replied, “Just curious.  MacCready’s leaving with the next caravan so I wanted to make sure we put up some extra defenses since we’ll be down a standing guard if you two leave together.  Not that you shouldn’t go…”

     “I’ll let you know as soon as I do,” Nora assured him, folding her arms against a sudden gust of wind. “Definitely won’t leave you high and dry.”

     “Sounds good.  Thanks again for the scrap you brought back.”

     “No problem.”

     She hunched into the wind and hurried the rest of the way to the house, slipping into the warm interior.  Shaun was stretched out on the floor on his stomach, Duncan next to him, reading aloud from a tattered old book.

     “‘I felt now for the first time the joy of exploration.  The isle was uninhabited’ – Mom what’s an ‘isle’?”

     “It’s another word for island,” Nora replied, falling onto the couch next to Dogmeat. “What’re you reading?”

     “ _Treasure Island_ ,” Duncan said, chin pillowed on his fists. “Miss Piper gave it to Daddy when we ran out of Grognaks, but some of the pages are missing.”

     “Do you think you could find us a better copy in the capital?” Shaun asked, picking at a spot on the page.

     Nora narrowed her eyes at her son. “Not you, too.”

     He grinned and Nora marveled for a moment at how much it was like Hancock’s, full of mischief and smug pride.

     “Didn’t the government used to run a lot of the libraries down there?” he continued, “They’d have all kinds of stuff, wouldn’t they?”

     “Yes, there were a lot of great libraries in D.C.,” Nora answered, “But I don’t think that area’s been as well-preserved as the Commonwealth.”

     “I heard Sarah tell Daddy once that the Brotherhood collected books,” Duncan supplied, matching Shaun’s grin. “Maybe they have a copy you could borrow for us.”

     Nora almost laughed at the idea of setting up a lending library between the Minutemen and the Brotherhood, especially since she and Maxson had not parted on great terms.  She did have to admit, however, that the idea of looting the Library of Congress made her inner bookworm hyperventilate a little.

     “ _Please?_ ” Shaun begged, brown eyes wide. “Besides, don’t you want me and Anne to meet Grandpa and Grandma?”

     “Of course I do, sweetheart,” Nora said, “But it’s not as simple as you might think.  And it’ll take months to get there.”

     “No, it doesn’t,” Duncan declared, looking at her as if she’d lost her mind. “It only took me and Daddy like a week!”

     “Uh, Duncan…”

     “You’re not going to be a dummy and _walk_ all the way there, are you?” he gasped, “You take a boat!”

     Nora frowned. “What are you talking about?”

     “It takes a long time to walk with a Brahmin,” Duncan informed her, “But there’s a guy with a boat and he brought us back on it.”

     “Oh,” Nora said, feeling fairly stupid.

     “So when are you guys going to go?” Shaun said, sitting up and closing the book. “Are we going to stay here or are we going to go to Home Plate?  Can I take my toolbox?”

     “We’ll decide soon, Kiddo,” Hancock interrupted.  Nora glanced over and shook her head.  He was standing at the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall, arms crossed and smiling at her.  She hadn’t even noticed him there.

     “We will, huh?”

     “Yep,” he replied, “I already asked Daisy to look into a boat and a guide for us.”

     “You are unbelievable.”

     “I think you mean ‘amazing’.”

     “Why is everyone so eager to get me out the door?”

     Shaun flopped down next to her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “I don’t want you to go, Mom,” he said, “But Hancock said finding Grandma and Grandpa would make you happy and I do want that.”

     “I was really happy when Daddy came back and got me,” Duncan added, “Being a family isn’t as fun when you aren’t together.”

     Nora looked over at Hancock. “Did you coach them or something?”

     He shrugged. “They’re smart kids.”

     “What about Anne?” Nora asked, “Has she got something to say about this business, too?  Everyone else does.”

     “She just went to sleep,” Hancock replied, nodding back at the second bedroom. “But you can ask her in an hour or two.”

     Nora rolled her eyes. “Alright, boys, you win,” she said, “But no guarantees on the book, alright?”

 

     It was almost dark when they passed through Concord and Charon was in a bad mood.  James had sabotaged their efforts at leaving Goodneighbor for well over a week, and then conveniently gotten lost once they left, taking them through two Raider camps along the way.  What should have been an easy twelve-hour walk had taken them over two days and resulted in Charon taking a bullet through the shoulder.  They were out of Stimpaks so he’d been forced to suffer through the pain for the last six hours.  James had made some idiotic remark about ghouls and pain tolerance, and only two hundred-plus years of conditioning prevented Charon from breaking his nose then and there.

     As the road left Concord proper and curved sharply uphill, they spotted the old Red Rocket station marked on the hand-drawn map they’d gotten from Daisy in Goodneighbor.  Charon breathed a sigh of relief when the electric lights came into view.  James, as usual, noticed the neon “bar” sign almost immediately.

     “Perfect,” he said, clapping his hands together. “I was starting to feel sober.”

     “God forbid.”

     “You’re such a ray of sunshine in this dark and dreary world,” James retorted, “I don’t know what’d I do without you to brighten up my day, Charon.”

     “You’d have died eleven years ago.”

     James scowled at him but didn’t reply.  The bar wasn’t much, more of a caravan stop with a long counter built from old tables, but it had liquor.  Serving from behind the tables was a freckled redhead with a thick Irish accent.

     “Listen, asshole, you hurl on my bar and I’m taking out of your hide,” she informed a wobbly, gray-faced patron as James and Charon approached. “Get the fuck outta here if you can’t hold it.”

     The man suppressed a groan and stumbled away obediently.  James slid into his vacated seat with a wide grin, finger-combing his hair away from his face.

     “Evening, darlin’,” he said, “What have you got?”

     The redhead threw him a dirty look. “Alcohol,” she replied, “Call me ‘darling’ again and I’ll break your fingers.”

     “You’ve got an awful lot of pent-up aggression, don’t you?”

     “No, I just have zero patience for dickheads,” she said, “If you want conversation or a piece of arse, find a different bar.”

     “Bobrov’s, if you have some,” James answered, “We’re also looking for the Minutemen General.  Heard she sticks around here.”

     “Nora’s up in Sanctuary last I saw,” the redhead informed him, twisting the cap off a dark bottle and plunking it down in front of James. “Across the bridge.  Six caps.”

     James grinned and left behind the fare, sliding off the barstool with a wink and a wave.  The redhead only scowled at him and turned towards her other patrons.  Charon breathed a sigh of relief as James shouldered his bag and led the way towards Sanctuary.  With only one drink in him, he was closer to tolerable and more coherent than usual; they might just make a decent impression and finally get a decent, paying job and a bed to sleep in tonight.  While he had certainly been saddled with worse employers in his many years, Charon was thoroughly fed up with James by now.

     “I’d say we’re making good time getting back home,” James said, taking a sip of his drink as they plodded across the bridge.

     Charon took a steadying breath. “Why do you say that?”

     James shrugged. “Took us two years to get out of Florida,” he said, “We’ve only been here, what, two months now?”

     “Four.”

     “Two, four, whatever,” James replied with a dismissive wave, “It’s been an adventure, hasn’t it?”

     Adventure indeed, Charon sighed to himself as he followed James into the settlement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if Bethesda has considered Florida in their Fallout universe...but I live here and it's a miserable-ass state even now. I would hate to be here post-apocalypse and the image of Charon shotgunning mutated gators and fire ants amuses the hell out of me.


	7. Negotiation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally didn't mean to update so off-schedule...but I dove head-first into Christmas prep and didn't touch my laptop all that often. Back to regular updates -- Enjoy!

     Coming to the Commonwealth had been another whim of James’s, an overnight decision made by an alcoholic without a purpose except wandering in search of the newest sight and the next drink.  Charon really had no choice but to follow, but he’d been grateful for the first time in years.  They’d heard good things about the Commonwealth – it had been better preserved from the bombs than many other places and it was mostly controlled by the Minutemen, a militia force who kept the Raiders and mutants at bay but mostly left people to do what they pleased and live how they preferred.  Considering his past, Charon could appreciate that kind of leadership philosophy.

     Based on the gossip, he had expected…well, not what he saw.  The woman sitting across from them was young, probably no older than James, with a soft, unscarred face and dark red hair that tumbled past her shoulders.  She was petite and smiled easily, spoke with confidence, and bounced an infant girl on her knee as they discussed the trip south.  If not for the pair of sharpened combat knives strapped to her thigh and her ghoul partner, Charon might have mistaken her for a prewar Super Duper Mart ad sprung mysteriously to life.

     “…I know the Capital Wastes like the back of my hand,” James was saying, “Been all through it, top to bottom, side to side.”

     The General, who had introduced herself as Nora, nodded. “Have you heard of a ghoul colony in the area?  Somewhere in the city ruins?”

     “Underworld?  Of course,” James replied, smiling confidently. “I found Charon there.  They love me.”

     Charon looked at his boots, concentrating hard to keep from rolling his eyes.  Always with the ego.

     “I’m looking for someone,” Nora continued as the infant chewed determinedly on her knuckle, “My intel is old but it’s very important that I find them.  A pair of prewar ghouls that left the Commonwealth to go to Underworld about fifteen years back.  George and Renee Doyle.”

     James scratched his chin. “I was still in the Vault then,” he said, “Charon, you recognize the names?”

     Charon looked up from his boots and straightened. “I didn’t often get people’s names.”

     “Charon used to be the, uh, bouncer in Underworld’s bar,” James said, clapping him on the shoulder.  Charon tried not to scowl; it probably wasn’t prudent to disclose much about his former employer at the moment, not that it mattered.  James had his contract currently and he was bound to him.

     “You never heard of them?” Nora asked, looking at Charon.  There was something innocent about her, about the way she addressed him directly, that he hadn’t seen since…well, probably since he’d been a child. 

     “I…I wasn’t allowed to speak to most of the residents,” Charon explained, struggling to keep the stutter out of his voice.

     She nodded understandingly. “They’re my grandparents,” she explained, “I don’t know for certain that they ever even made it to Underworld but I need to check.”

     “Your grandparents are prewar ghouls?” James asked, brow furrowing in confusion.

     “Yes,” Nora replied matter-of-factly, “I’m prewar, too, but I had the unfortunate luck to be stored in a freezer for two centuries instead of being ghoulified.”

     “Oh,” James said, “Well, I’ve certainly heard weirder stories.”

     Nora smiled politely at him. “It’d just be me and Hancock,” she explained, “We don’t really need bodyguard work or anything like that, unless the Capital Wastes are significantly more dangerous than the Commonwealth is.”

     Her ghoul partner, a strange, lean figure that had remained silent throughout the whole exchange, gave her a dirty look, as if she’d wounded his pride.  She returned it without hesitation.

     “You volunteered for this,” she said, handing him the infant. “I’m not explaining to her and Shaun that their father rushed a super-super mutant or some such and got himself killed.  Stow your ego.”

     Charon tried not to goggle in confusion and disbelief.  Born before the war, shacked up with a _ghoul_ , apparently a mother of two, General of the Minutemen, destroyer of the Institute...who the hell was this woman?

     “Uh, okay,” James replied, glancing at Charon and then back at Nora. “I think you’ll be on even footing, so long as you can handle a gun decently.”

     “Perfect,” Nora said, smiling and slapping her knees.  The infant girl let out a squeal of excitement and reached for Hancock’s tricorn; he dodged and grinned at her before she latched onto his red velvet lapel instead.

     “What’s your asking price?”

     James straightened and tilted his head as if thinking. “Two thousand,” he said, hesitating just long enough to seem as if he’d strongly considered it.  Charon winced internally.  He should have done the talking as they’d planned, but of course –

     “Apiece?” Hancock continued, meeting Charon’s eyes for a brief moment.  The way he and Nora looked at him so often was making him uncomfortable.

     James nodded, almost too eagerly.  There was a beat of silence as Nora and Hancock exchanged looks.  How in the hell did they communicate like that?

     Charon was almost convinced James had overplayed their cards when Nora nodded.

     “Works for me,” she said, “Can you make the arrangements with the ferryman?”

     “Of course,” James replied, shooting Charon a satisfied smile.

     “We can work out the details tomorrow,” Nora said, just before the door banged open and two young boys ran in, one of them carrying an old telephone and a rusty toaster, the other clutching a rifle as long as he was tall.

     “That thing better not be loaded,” Hancock said, eyeing the boy carrying the rifle.

     “It needs a scope,” he answered, “Can we use the glass cutter?”

     “You’re going to start on that _now_?” Nora asked, shaking her head. “We’ll look at it in the morning, alright?  Put it away.”

     “But Mom – !”

     “In the morning,” she repeated emphatically, raising her eyebrows at him.  The boy glanced at Hancock, who shook his head, and then sighed before shuffling away down the hallway with the smaller boy on his heels.  Charon marveled briefly at this odd family that seemed to communicate in at least fifty percent looks and gestures.

     “There’s a bunkhouse at the end of this road here,” Nora said, gesturing to the old avenue outside. “Feel free to use it, or Cait rents private ones at the Red Rocket.”

 

     “Charon, my friend, we are back on top,” James declared, stretching out on the bed, fingers laced behind his head, ankles crossed and propped on the metal footboard.  Charon didn’t answer, busy fixing the bandage on his gunshot wound.  It had gone through and through so there was no bullet to dig out, and it had missed the bones, but still ached fiercely, especially after carrying his pack for hours on end.

     “How bad is it?”

     “How bad is what?”

     James rolled his eyes. “Your bullet hole.”

     “It’s fine,” Charon replied, tearing off a length of duct tape and slapping it over the square of cloth wadded into the wound.  He could feel James watching him for a moment but he didn’t look up.

     “Stay here,” he said at last, swinging his legs off the bed and grabbing his bag. “I’ll be back.”

     Charon grunted in reply as James left the bunk house.  He had no idea what his employer was doing and frankly didn’t care; he was glad to have the peace and quiet away from him, however temporary.  He finished cleaning and bandaging himself, tossing the old bandages into the fire grate before cleaning his hands and settling in to start his nightly routine of disassembling and cleaning his shotgun.

     As he was wiping grime off the sight ring, James reappeared.  He was carrying a syringe in one hand and a pair of glass bottles in the other.  Charon was debating whether or not to say something when he offered him the syringe.

     “Med-X,” he said, “And a Nuka Cherry.”

     Charon stared for a moment, flabbergasted.  It had been a long time since James had done something like that for him.

     “And before you ask, I didn’t steal it,” James continued, flopping back onto the opposite bed with his own Nuka Cola in hand.

     “I didn’t say anything.”

     “Saw the sign for the clinic when we came up,” he explained, “Pretty brunette in there.  Good prices.”

     Charon nodded and poked the Med-X into his arm.  It didn’t take long for the medication to flood his system and dull the pain in his shoulder.  James raised his bottle of cola towards him in a mock toast.

     “As I was saying, Charon,” he said, “We’re back on top.  _Four thousand caps._ ”

     “You should have explained to them that I don’t require payment.”

     “Why?”

     “Because you took advantage of them.”

     “I did not,” James replied, looking genuinely affronted. “You may not _require_ payment but I’ve always given it, haven’t I?”

     “This isn’t about our working relationship, James --”

     “Charon, think for a moment,” James interrupted, sitting up. “Before me, how many of your employers thought that they owned _you_ and not your contract?  And count Ahzrukhal, too, because despite the fuss he made about being disgusted by slavery, he may as well have slapped a collar on you.”

     Charon bit his tongue and then sighed. “All of them,” he said after a moment, “Except for one.”

     “Who was that?” James asked, brow furrowed. “You know what, never mind – we’ll talk about that later.  So, beside this one paragon of virtue, everyone you’ve ever worked for has thought of you as a slave at least at the beginning.”

     “Yes.”

     “Do you think anyone else who has heard about your ‘contract’ has thought the same thing?”

     “Of course they have.”

     “Do you think if I had told the General ‘oh this is my employee who is deathly loyal – literally – and he doesn’t need to be paid’ she would have thought ‘slave’, too?”

     Charon paused. “Probably.”

     “Yes,” James concluded, “And as much of a humanist she undoubtedly is, do you think she would have hired us in that case?”

     “You could have said that the two thousand was our combined price.”

     “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” James snapped, throwing up his hands. “Since when did you become an economic ethicist?”

     Charon didn’t reply, just scowled at him and popped the top off his Nuka Cherry.  James sighed and flopped back onto the bed.

     “I’m not the jackass you think I am, Charon.”

     “Once, yes.”

     “I’ve been through a lot.”

     “Everyone has.”

     “Your overwhelming compassion and understanding blows me away.”

     Charon dabbed oil onto his cleaning rag and began wiping down the stock of his shotgun with careful, even swipes.  James shifted on his mattress and rolled onto his side, facing away from him.  It wasn’t long before the little room was silent except for his low, even breathing.  Charon wiped at the stock until it gleamed in the patchy moonlight.


	8. What Happens Next

     It was stupidly easy for Clayton to insinuate himself inside Fort Independence.  Although his studies had been primarily in plant biology, he knew enough anatomy and first aid to get himself a position as a resident doctor.  A stringy, grouchy woman named Ronnie Shaw set him up in a windowless room that didn’t look like it had been properly cleaned in decades; he spent the first week sweeping and scrubbing it with as much hot water and Abraxo as he could get his hands on.  He didn’t particularly care about whether or not the Minutemen he worked on got infections or not – they supported _her,_ after all, a mass murderer – but it was necessary to his cover that he look dedicated.

     Once he was established, he sat down and wrote everything out to Barnes, intending to send the letter on to Diamond City once the next caravan came around.  The ex-Gunner had situated himself in the shanty-town the same time Clayton went to Fort Independence, a settlement large and connected enough that he could remain fairly anonymous but still accessible.  Just as he was finishing the letter, one of the Minutemen stumbled in the door, a dirty bandage pressed to a bleeding wound on his head.

     “Hello, Doc,” he said, “I seem to have injured myself.”

     Clayton bit his lip to keep from scowling. “Obviously.”

     “Colonel Shaw is pretty good with a gun,” the Minuteman continued, seating himself on the examination table. “She didn’t even have to shoot me; she just hit me with the stock.  Guess I shouldn’t have mouthed off, though I’m starting to see where Nora may have learned it from --”

     The man pulled the bandage aside as Clayton stood and went to wash his hands in a nearby basin.  He touched the swollen cut on his forehead and winced, sunglasses slipping down his nose a bit.

     “Take those off so I can examine you properly,” Clayton ordered, wiping his hands dry.

     “I’m flattered, Doc,” the man quipped without missing a beat, “But I don’t bat for that team.  No offense.”

     “I meant the sunglasses.”

     “Oh, I can’t take these off either.  Sensitive eyes.  I fell face-first into a puddle of radiation a few years ago and now I’ve got super eyesight --”

     “You aren’t serious.”

     “You got me,” the man said, grinning. “Really, my eyes are just _arrestingly_ beautiful.  I wear the glasses to keep everyone from swooning over me.  Gets distracting, you know?”

     Clayton stared at him for a moment.  The ridiculous grin didn’t falter in the slightest.

     “Whatever you say,” Clayton replied finally, “Hold still, please.”

     The man hummed as Clayton worked, an off-key, upbeat tune, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table.  The cut on his forehead was too perfect to have been administered by a blow to the head; rather, it looked like a quick, precise cut from a very sharp knife or scalpel.  Clayton considered mentioning this but decided it wasn’t worth it.  Six stitches later and he stepped back, glad to be done.

     “You’re good to go,” he said, “Don’t touch the stitches.”

     The man let his hand drop and grinned again. “Thanks, Doc,” he said, “You do great work.  Trained in Diamond City?”

     Clayton nodded stiffly. “Yes.”

     “I didn’t know Doctor Sun had an apprentice,” the man continued, “Lived in Diamond City for a long time.”

     “Then you didn’t pay attention.”

     Clayton was almost certain the man’s smile faltered for a moment, but it was impossible to tell for certain.

     “True, I did spend a lot more of my time in the Dugout than in the market,” he said, “Well, thanks again.”

     He left the infirmary, humming again.  Clayton stood and locked the door behind him, then stuffed his letter to Barnes in his desk and locked that, too.

 

      Nora closed her eyes as the Jet hit her system and made her head swim for a moment.  Anne had been asleep on her lap for over an hour and Shaun had finally passed out with his head pillowed on Dogmeat’s side.  She had taken them up on a guard tower with her so Shaun could point out all the constellations he’d learned, though she’d only half-listened to his chatter as her anxieties chased themselves in circles around her brain.  It had only been an hour or two since they’d settled things with James and Charon but she’d found herself in a weird state of limbo already, impatient to leave and simultaneously scared stiff about it.

     Footsteps echoed up the stairs behind her as the Jet high began to recede.

     “Treatin’ yourself without me, Sunshine?”

     She turned a little and gave Hancock a wry smile. “Thinking too much,” she said, “Where’d you run off to?”

     He shrugged and scooted a chair close to her. “Looking for these.”

     From one of his inner coat pockets, he produced a pair of knobbly branches, each about four inches long and as wide around as his wrist.  The bark had been stripped off to reveal the smooth red-brown inner wood.

     “Making some miniature nunchucks?”

     He returned her smile but didn’t answer right away, instead flipping open a pocket knife and shaving off one gnarl from the block.

     “My dad taught us some stuff,” he said, “Me and Guy, before his joints froze up.  Figured it was a better use of my hands than another cigarette or Mentat.”

     Nora raised her eyebrows quizzically.  He wasn’t meeting her eyes, but she didn’t say anything, just nodded.

     “What’s got you anxious?”

     She exhaled heavily and leaned her head back, staring up at the black blanket of sky dotted with silver stars.  Anne shifted in her lap but stayed asleep, drooling contentedly onto her shirt.

     “The trip,” she replied, “Worried.  Impatient.  Scared.”

     “Not happy?”

     Nora shrugged. “The last time I went looking for someone I’d lost…”

     She squeezed her eyes shut.  His whole being was still burned into her memory – the polite, detached smile, the well-groomed beard, the dark eyes like Nate’s, the soothing voice, the crisp white lab coat.  His face full of anger and pain the last time she’d ever looked at him.

     Hancock placed a hand on her arm and squeezed.  She drew in a shaky breath and rubbed her face, forcing back the tears that wanted to come anytime she thought of him.  She’d cried for her baby once and that was enough.

     “I think the odds are a little more in your favor this time, love,” Hancock said, rubbing his thumb down her forearm. “Adults are a lot harder to brainwash than kids.”

     She let out a short laugh and shook her head. “How am I going to explain _that_ one?” she said, “They kidnapped Shaun and reared him to be the evil overlord of a mad scientist society, but this is a _new_ Shaun right here and he’ll be really upset and hurt if you don’t treat him like the _real_ Shaun, but actually that one is dead --”

     “I think we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Hancock interrupted, returning to his whittling. “You gotta stop tryin’ to plan everything out in advance, Sunshine.”

     “I can’t _not_ plan.”

     “Did you plan to bring Shaun home?  That one, I mean,” he asked, nodding down at the little boy with his face in Dogmeat’s fur.

     “Of course not.”

     “Did you plan on bringing home Anne?  Or even keeping her?”

     “You know I didn’t.”

     “Well, they both turned out pretty good without any preparation, don’t you think?” he continued, “I mean, Shaun’s got your attitude and your brains, but it’s not as bad as you’d expect.”

     “You’re an ass,” Nora replied, curling her lip at him. “He’s got _your_ attitude.”

     “I think of it as my charisma.”

     “Sure.”

     “My point is,” Hancock said, shooting her a grin. “You gotta slow down and go with the flow more.  Take it one step at a time.”

     Nora nodded and hugged Anne closer to her, breathing in the scent of the little girl’s clean brown curls.  Hancock was right – like usual.  But putting that knowledge into action was an entirely different story, hence her need to self-medicate.

     They sat there in silence, shavings of wood falling to the floor as Hancock continued carving at the branch and Nora stared up at the stars.  How many she could see, now that human civilization had collapsed at the core, never ceased to amaze her.  She hadn’t been able to make out any of the patterns Shaun had pointed out earlier, but the starry sky was beautiful nonetheless.

     When he had smoothed the branch done to an almost perfect cylinder, Hancock flipped the pocket knife closed and stuffed it and the wood back into his pocket.

     “Should get some sleep, Sunshine.”

     “It’s nice out here.  Peaceful.”

     “It is,” he agreed, “But tomorrow you’ll be complaining about your back if you sit there much longer.”

     He put a hand under her elbow as she stood, clutching Anne to her chest, and then pulled her close and kissed her.

     “Whatever happens, love, good or bad, we still got this.”


	9. What's Really Lost

     “Mom, _let go_.”

     “I can’t,” Nora replied, squeezing Shaun once more. “You’re my baby, I’m going to miss you so much…”

     Shaun shot Hancock a pleading look over his mother’s shoulder.

     “Sunshine, you’re strangling the kid.”

     With a reluctant sigh, she let go and rocked back on her heels to look at him. “Alright,” she said, “But it’s my job as a mother to embarrass the hell out of you.”

     Shaun rolled his eyes. “You’re a dork, Mom.”

     “I know,” she replied, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Behave, alright?  I’ve got all my friends dropping in to check on you when you least expect it, so no funny stuff.  Take care of your sister.”

     “I will,” Shaun promised, throwing his arms around her for one last hug. “Don’t forget to look for the book, too.”

     “We won’t leave until we’ve searched every library,” Nora replied, smiling. “I love you, kiddo.”

     “I love you, too, Mom.”

     He let go of her and turned to Hancock, hugging him around the waist.  Hancock looked surprised for a moment and then patted his back awkwardly. 

     “See you soon, kid.”

     “See you,” Shaun replied, smiling at him.  As they made their way across the bridge to the Red Rocket where Charon and James were waiting, Nora nudged him with her shoulder.

     “Why are you always so shocked when he shows you affection?”

     He blinked at her. “I dunno,” he replied with a shrug, “I’m a ghoul.  We’re not supposed to be cuddly.”

     “And he’s a synth who isn’t supposed to have free will,” Nora replied, “But we know that he does.  And he sees his mother loving you.”

     “His mother’s had too much Jet.”

     Nora rolled her eyes but didn’t say anything as they walked.  As they approached the Red Rocket, Cait flagged them down from the bar.

     “I got somethin’ for you,” she said, reaching into her pocket.  She pulled out a pair of brass knuckles and slapped them into Nora’s palm.

     “These got me through my years in the Combat Zone,” she said, “They ain’t pretty but they bust faces pretty damn good.  Consider them a loan until you get back.”

     Nora closed her fist around the knuckles and smiled. “Thank you, Cait,” she said, “I’ll take good care of them.”

     “They better come back stained with slaver blood,” she said, “If you find any of those fucks down in the Wastes, give ‘em a good few on me.”

     “Will do.”

     Cait nodded and looked away, returning to swabbing the bar with a wet rag.  James appeared from the guesthouse and winked at her, receiving a scowl in return.  Charon followed shortly after with a resigned frown.

     “You ready to hit the road?” James asked, grinning at Nora.

     “Ready as I’m ever going to be.”

     “Alright, then,” he replied, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “Let’s get moving.”

 

     Nora managed to suppress most of her serious doubts about leaving while they headed for the Castle, but the trepidation hit her full force when they passed the ruins of her old high school and began the trek down to the fort.  The walls weren’t finished yet – she and Preston had devised a plan to cover the gaps knocked out by the mirelurk queen with temporary steel fencing and then, gradually, granite again – and her domain looked woefully under-defended.  They had encountered two Raider groups between Goodneighbor and here, and heard at least two Minutemen alerts over the radio.

     “This place is a _fortress_ ,” James declared as they walked, whistling in appreciation. “Let me guess, you built this place by hand?”

     He smirked at her.  Nora took a steadying breath and shook her head.

     “This place is several hundred years old,” she replied, “It was used by the British first and then the American colonists in the Revolution.  Preston Garvey and I recommissioned it last year when we were rebuilding the Minutemen.”

     James looked at her as if she’d spoken in a foreign language. “What the hell are the British?”

     “What the hell kind of history did they teach you in that Vault?” Nora replied, eyebrows raised. “You’ve never heard of the American Revolution?”

     “If they mentioned it in my classes, I must have been out sick or busy toilet-papering the Overseer’s office that day,” James said, shrugging. “I doubt my education was very well-rounded, anyway.”

     Nora sighed. “Well, it used to be even more impressive,” she said, surveying the Castle.  Her Minutemen worked like dogs most days and had done fantastic work fixing it up, but the Castle was still vulnerable to attack – especially if it got out that she was leaving and Preston was on the opposite end of the Commonwealth.

     “Well, most settlements I’ve seen have some tire fencing and a few guard posts,” James said, “I’ve been a lot of places but I have never heard of anyone recommissioning a prewar fortress.  Pretty damn ingenious.”

     “Once we chased the mirelurks out.”

     “Yeah, they can certainly be a royal pain in the ass,” James agreed, “Hey, look, Tobar’s already here!”

     He waved and took off jogging towards the end of the nearby pier.  An old riverboat was parked in the dark water, the kind that had once been used for leisure cruises up and down the river.  The wooden hull was gray and speckled with algae and barnacles, the sails had long since faded to white, and it seemed to rock ominously as James hopped off the pier and onto the deck.  Nora’s stomach churned with anxiety.

     Hancock joined her at the railing of the pier.  “Lookin’ a tad green there, Sunshine.”

     “We’re going out onto the Atlantic with _that_?”

     “What’s wrong with it?”

     “Um, well…” Nora trailed off as her stomach rolled again, this time in sync with the waves slapping loudly against the riverboat’s deck.

     “He made it here, didn’t he?”

     “Are you certain we can’t just walk?” Nora asked, looking over into crinkled black eyes. “We’re all able-bodied adults and if we skirt around any potential threats, we could make really good time…”

     “Nora, love,” Hancock said patiently, putting a firm hand on her shoulder. “We’re taking the boat.  You’ve already stalled this trip by two weeks, you’re not making it longer.”

     He gave her a gentle push toward the boat.  Nora swallowed the bile in her throat and walked forward, hands steadied on the shoulder straps of her pack.  This was not going to be a pleasant trip.

 

     George had always thought _Grouse_ was a rather appropriate name for the gatekeeper at Paradise Falls, as the man’s scowl seemed permanently fixed in place and every other sentence out of his mouth was either an insult or a complaint.  Today, however, Grouse seemed to be in an almost-cheerful mood, his dark eyes lighting up when he saw the two collared Scribes shuffling between him and Lyssa.

     “Deimos, my friend,” he called, standing and leering at them. “Brought me _two_ this time?”

     “Don’t call me that,” George snapped, “They’re Brotherhood.”

     Grouse’s scowl returned. “You know I don’t want to fuck with those assholes.”

     “Send ‘em north, then,” Lyssa said, “They aren’t going to chase a slaver caravan out of the Wastes just for a pair of scribes.”

     “Takes a lot of money to go up to the Commonwealth,” Grouse replied, shaking his head. “Damned Minutemen are growing like fungus all over it.  Had a caravan come back just last week that tangled with the general herself down in the swamps.”

     Lyssa rolled her eyes. “Then west,” she said, “Or you can pull your testicles out of your purse and deal with it.  They’re a fucking _militia._ ”

     “They’re a militia with a savage at the helm and a bunch of fucking _cannons_ ,” Grouse argued, “I’ll take ‘em, but half price.  We’ll have to buy extra ammo and cover the inevitable losses.”

     Lyssa opened her mouth to argue but George held up a hand to silence her. “Fine,” he said, “Just get this over with, I don’t want to stand here all night.”

     When the business was done and over with, George and Lyssa began the trek back to Evergreen Mills in silence.  He could tell Lyssa wasn’t happy with him by the sullen stare she fixed on the horizon, but he wasn’t certain he cared much.  There had been a time when he liked Lyssa, when he maybe even loved her like the granddaughter he’d once had, but lately nothing seemed to matter much.

     “Those prices were criminal,” Lyssa said after an hour or so, “We could have gotten more out him.”

     “Why does it matter?”

     Lyssa shook her head. “Now he’s never going to give us a decent price again,” she replied, “It’s going to take twice as many to make what we were a month ago.”

     “Then take twice as many.”

     “Oh, well, then why don’t we just storm the Citadel while we’re at it?” Lyssa sniped, “We’ll auction off the paladins.  Might even take Maxson alive.  We’d get a mountain of caps for him, I bet.”

     “Whatever strikes your fancy.”

     Lyssa stopped and grabbed his arm. “What the hell is wrong with you lately?”

     George yanked his arm away from her. “Same shit as always,” he said, “Maybe once you’ve lost everything, you’ll understand.”

     “Understand?” Lyssa replied incredulously, “Isn’t that why we’re out here?  Because we lost everything and we understand each other?”

     “Kid, you don’t understand the half of it,” George answered, shaking his head. “You were born into this radioactive shit hole.  What’d you lose, huh?  A shack in the middle of nowhere and parents that would have shot you if they’d known you’d gone ghoul?”

     Lyssa stared at him, dark eyes burning like coals. “Maybe I didn’t have some fancy prewar mansion --”

     George let out a short bark of laughter. “You think I care about my fucking _house_?” he asked, “That’s the only damn thing still standing.  I lost a lot more important shit.”

     “What, like that granddaughter you idolize?” Lyssa spat back, “The idiot that trusted Vault-Tec and probably died in a hole?”

     George turned and grabbed the front of Lyssa’s shirt, jerking her forward as anger boiled to the surface and made his jaw clench. 

     “Shut your fucking mouth,” he growled, shaking her once. “Unless you want your teeth knocked down your throat, _shut up_.”

     Lyssa leered at him. “You got the balls, grandpa?” she hissed back, “Do it, then.  Renee isn’t here to see you.  Little Nora isn’t here.  There’s no one but you left and you’re just a spineless sack of molerat shit who can’t do a damn thing about it.”

     White spots danced in front of George’s eyes as his fist connected with Lyssa’s cheekbone.  Pain shot through his ancient joints as she fell, holding her hand to her face.  He exhaled like an enraged bull, heartbeat thudding in his ears.  How dare she, the ungrateful little bitch –

     “That’s what I’m talking about!”

     He looked down.  Lyssa was cradling her face, already swelling where he’d hit her, and laughing.

     “There it is,” she continued, grinning up at him. “That’s what you _really_ lost, Deimos.  Your anger.  That’s what’ll keep you going for however many years you got left.  That’s what’ll give you something back and teach those assholes that took it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another late update :-( I had to rewrite this chapter like five times until it felt right. Hopefully it didn't disappoint!


	10. Mistakes We've Made

     When the riverboat docked along the Potomac tidal basin, almost two weeks after leaving the Castle, Nora hurried off as quickly as her weak stomach would allow.  She had to restrain herself from kissing the ground gratefully and settled for closing her eyes and concentrating on the solid, unmoving concrete beneath her feet.

     “Pretty impressive, isn’t she?”

     Nora opened her eyes to see James grinning at her. “What is?”

     He pointed down the stretch of gray, broken concrete to a rusted steel monstrosity about a mile away.  A beached aircraft carrier, by the looks of it, the bow broken off and half-buried in sand.  It was covered in a layer of rust and connected to the shore by a long steel bridge.

     “Rivet City,” James informed her, “Biggest and safest settlement in the wasteland.”

     Nora nodded.  Impressive by wasteland standards, she supposed, though the things hadn’t exactly been beauties in their heyday, really.

     “Ever been on one?”

     “Once,” Nora replied, “Funeral for one of my husband’s friends.”

     “Oh,” James said, grimacing. “Sorry.”

     She smiled at him reassuringly. “There were kind of a lot of them,” she said, “About of half of his graduating class in medical school got drafted and quite a few never made it home.”

     James frowned and glanced back at Hancock, who was discussing something with Tobar. “No offense, but he doesn’t really seem like the military type.  Or the doctoring type.”  
     “Who, Hancock?” Nora asked, holding back a laugh. “I didn’t mean him.  My husband didn’t make it out of the Vault.  Hancock and I, we’re, um…”

     James arched a dark eyebrow at her and smiled knowingly. “Living in sin?”

     Nora opened her mouth to say something when Hancock walked up, face split into a grin. “Every single night,” he replied, looping an arm around her waist and reaching for her backside.

     Nora smacked his hand away. “Show some decorum in public,” she ordered, “So, jokes aside – where to first?”

     James nodded obediently and glanced around. “Underworld is almost exactly north,” he said, “But the only way to get through the city without rock-climbing equipment is via the old metro tunnels.  Probably take us close to a day, depending on what’s down there currently.”

     “It would be prudent to wait until tomorrow morning,” Charon interrupted.  Nora almost jumped; the man spoke so rarely that when he did she had usually forgotten he was even there.

     “We’ve still got a good eight hours of daylight,” Nora replied, glancing up at the position of the sun.

     “The last thing you want is to be in the downtown area after dark,” Charon countered, “Unless you enjoy being ambushed by Super Mutants.”

     “Is that all?” Nora asked with a derisive snort, “Come on, entice me with an actual challenge.”

     Charon stared down at her, a full two heads shorter, and wrinkled his brow in what seemed to be confusion.

     "I think, given your difficulty with the trip down --"   

     James didn't know her well, but the way Hancock winced as Nora's eyes narrowed told him enough.  He'd seen that look before from a blonde Sentinel he had dared to underestimate.

     “I personally would like the time to decompress,” he interrupted, “And we need to restock some of the basics.”

     Nora turned the beady stare on him but relented after a tense moment. “Fine,” she replied, “Lead the way.”

 

     Rivet City was hot, dark, and crowded, the press of bodies and the echo of voices almost too close for comfort.  Quite a few people seemed to know James, though their reactions to him varied from pleasant, nice-to-see-you-again smiles to outright scowls.  When he approached a vendor stall in a dim corner of the market, the woman behind it fixed him with a death glare.

     “ _You_!”

     Nora ducked instinctively as a coffee cup sailed through the air, narrowly missing James’s face and hitting Charon instead, smashing against the massive ghoul’s chest armor.

     “What the hell, Vic?” James demanded, “What’re you throwing shit for --”

     “You left me and the tourist high and dry in the middle of Falls Church,” she spat, reaching for another coffee cup. “Right in the middle of the city with a package, Brotherhood on one side and Super Mutants on the other, we barely made it out with our limbs intact --”

     “Victoria, that was almost six years ago!”

     “And you’ve been MIA since, you jackass!”

     Nora exchanged glances with Hancock, who nodded to a sign hanging over the vendor’s stall.  Hidden amongst the advertisements and prices was a barely-visible rail sign.

     Victoria poised to throw another projectile at James when Charon cleared his throat. “As much as we all know James deserves it,” he said in a low voice, “You’re attracting attention, Ms. Watts.”

     James glared but Victoria glanced in the direction Charon had nodded and seemed to visibly deflate.  A pair of Brotherhood scribes, accompanied by an impossible-to-miss Knight in power armor, stood a few dozen feet away.  The scribes were absorbed in their trading but the Knight was staring in their direction.

     “They’re just Brotherhood,” James replied dismissively, “Sarah used to --”

     “Shut up!” Victoria hissed, “This isn’t Elder Lyons’s Brotherhood anymore.  You’d know that if you had stuck around.”

     “The fuck are you talking about?”

     “Things changed when Maxson took over,” Victoria answered, sighing. “And now that he’s back from the Commonwealth, it’s open season again.  I’m surprised you two even got in the gate with a pair of ghouls.  Now get out of here before you blow my cover with your big mouth.”

     “You were the one throwing shit,” James accused, “Besides, I need supplies.”

     “Get them somewhere else,” Victoria retorted, then turned to Nora. “You, however…”

     “Do you have any RadAway?” she asked, ignoring James’s jealous glare. “And a geiger counter?”

     “Got the meds,” Victoria replied, “But my counter’s in the shop.  What’s your name?”

     “You can call me Professor.”

     Victoria eyed her and shook her head. “I hope you thought it through, traveling with that one,” she said, glancing back at James. “He’s not reliable.”

     “For four thousand caps, I’m as reliable as the sunrise,” James shot back.

     “Oh, so that’s what it takes?” Victoria asked, rolling her eyes. “Money.  Not principle or the fact that you made a _promise --_ ”

     “I didn’t intentionally abandon you, Vic,” James snapped, “I was on my way and shit happened.  I’m sorry but something else temporarily took precedence.”

     “Like what, huh?” Victoria demanded, “We’d planned the delivery for a _month._ ”

     James didn’t reply right away, just exhaled heavily and looked away from Victoria.  She snorted and shook her head, then turned to pull several bags of RadAway from her shelves. 

     “That was when Sarah died.”

     An icy silence fell at these words.  Nora looked over at Charon, surprised again that he had spoken, and saw that his usually stern demeanor seemed to have softened somewhat.  He looked from James to Victoria, who had frozen in surprise.

     “I didn’t realize,” she said after a moment, “I’m sorry.”

     James didn’t acknowledge her apology; without a word, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.  Nora watched him go with a pang in her chest.  She’d seen the look on his face and knew it all too well.  Grief, guilt, anger, defeat – all there for a brief moment and then shut down before it could worm its way out.

     “This has been an exciting afternoon,” Hancock dead-panned at her side, “You vaulties and your drama.”

 

     James wasn’t sure what time it was when he dragged himself down the darkened hallways of the ship, nor was he entirely sure where he was going.  Didn’t much matter; if Charon didn’t find him and direct him to the room at Weatherly, he knew Rivet City Security would be happy to deposit him back there eventually.  They’d done it plenty of times before.

     He was passing an open door when his foot connected painfully with something hard.  He lost his balance and went sprawling, metal clattering underneath him as his head smacked into the threshold.  Pain bloomed between his eyes and he swore loudly.

     “Are you alright?”

     James looked up from his undignified position on the floor, one hand clapped to his forehead.  Nora stood over him, her petite frame swimming in and out of focus.

     “Hold still a minute.”

     James blinked and felt a hard prick in his arm.  The pain started to recede and he opened his eyes.  Nora knelt in front of him, recapping a spent Stimpak and peering at his forehead intently.

     “Gotta be more careful when you’re under the influence,” she continued, meeting his eyes and holding out a hand. “I got high once and tried to fight off Super Mutants without my pants.  Nearly lost my leg.”

     James was too drunk and concussed to process what she was saying, so he settled for a confused stare.

     “What?”

     “I told you,” Nora said, “My husband didn’t make it out of the Vault.  My poison was Med-X and, by the smell of it, yours is beer.”

     James blinked again and pushed himself into a slightly more comfortable sitting position. “Where are we?  Were you following me?”

     “Saint Monica’s Church,” she replied, “And no, I wasn’t following you.”

     “You just happened to have a Stimpak you can waste on a drunk?”

     “You’re my guide to Underworld.  It behooves me to keep you from falling into a drunken coma and dying.”

     “You could hire someone better,” James said, feeling the cut between his eyebrows.  It was beginning to heal up, thanks to the Stimpak, but it was still swollen and tender.

     “Why would I bother?”

     James met Nora’s eyes and shook his head. “How did you get to be General of the Minutemen when you’re obviously such a terrible judge of character?”

     “Character is relative,” she replied, standing and yanking on his hand to bring him with her. “I’ve been where you’re at, anyway.  No judgments here.”

     James steadied himself on the door frame and glanced around the church.  It was deserted except for the two of them, most of the candles burned out.  A stack of papers and a ballpoint pen had been abandoned on one pew; Nora strode over and gathered them into her lap.

     “I grew up going to a little church like this one,” she said, “Saint Elizabeth’s.”

     James nodded and sat down next to her.  A folded letter on top of her stack of papers read “Shaun” in neat, loopy script.

     “I doubt Saint Monica is in the canon of Catholic saints that you grew up with,” he said, “Here, they worship a woman supposedly born to a pair of ghouls.”

     “Born to ghouls?” Nora echoed, looking over at him with her forehead wrinkled.

     “Yeah, she was a miracle baby,” James replied, shaking his head. “Or something.  I’m sure you’re aware, however, that ghouls are sterile.”

     Nora nodded but didn’t say anything.  They sat there in silence; Nora staring fixated at the lectern where Father Clifford preached on Sunday mornings, James looking into his lap.  After several minutes, Nora shifted in her seat and glanced over at him.

     “Sarah Lyons used to help you with official business?”

     James nodded. “When she could slip away,” he said, “They sometimes gave her information on the Institute.  She wanted to take them on eventually.”

     “She died in the field, right?”

     “How did you know?”

     “The Brotherhood and the Minutemen have a… strained relationship,” Nora replied, shrugging. “I had my moles sending me information from their terminals when they were still in the Commonwealth.”

     “Sarah wouldn’t have trampled all over you guys,” James said, sighing.  He’d picked up plenty of gossip and more than a few complaints about how Maxson had been running things while he’d been busy drinking throughout the course of the evening.

     Nora shrugged. “What’s done is done.”

     “Maxson used to be a sweet kid.  A little nerd.”

     “And from what you’ve mentioned, MacCready used to be a little asshole,” Nora countered, “Now he self-censors.  People change.”

     There was a finality to the statement, an assuredness that spoke of personal experience.  James glanced over and caught Nora’s eye.

     “Unfortunately.”

     “Can you get into the Citadel?”

     “I guess, technically…Why?”

     “Maxson and I parted on weird terms, but the Brotherhood actually helped the Minutemen once,” she said, “I never got the chance to thank him for it.  Can we add arranging a diplomatic visit to your duties?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let it never be said that I let computer crashes, holidays, or illness prevent me from taking creative liberties with the Fallout canon.
> 
> Merry Christmas, ya'll. Have fun, stay safe, etc., etc.


	11. Trouble On The Homefront

     The storm rolled in from the south overnight and continued into the next morning and all day, drenching Sanctuary Hills and washing the sky out in a dim, dingy gray.  The lake rose and flooded its banks, forcing everyone inside for most of the day.  By the time the sun had begun to set, the rain peetered out, leaving behind a thick, chilly fog and large mud puddles.  Preston had walked the perimeter twice before he came across Shaun and Dogmeat at the guard tower behind Nora’s.

     “Hi, Mr. Garvey!”

     The little boy waved enthusiastically, binoculars dangling from his neck.  Preston waved back and stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

     “How’s it going?”

     “Good,” Shaun replied, hopping down the stairs with his dog in tow. “Can I walk with you?”

     “Sure, I guess.”

     “Mom says I can be a Minuteman one day,” the boy informed him, “When I’m seventeen.  She says you were seventeen when you joined.”

     “I was.  I thought you wanted to be a detective like Mr. Valentine?”

     Shaun shrugged. “Maybe,” he said, “Maybe I’ll do both.  Do you think anyone will take me seriously?”

     “What do you mean?”

     Shaun glanced up at him in the darkness. “I’m a synth,” he said plainly, “Mom told me she doesn’t know if I’ll ever grow taller or bigger than I am now.  When I’m seventeen, I might still look like a little kid.”

     Preston nodded. “Have you measured yourself?”

     “What do you mean?”

     “When I was your age, my mom marked how tall I was on the door frame,” Preston explained, “Every year on my birthday.”

     “But what if I don’t grow?”

     “Then at least you’ll know, won’t you?”

     Shaun seemed to consider that for a moment. “I guess,” he said, “Duncan’s already getting taller.”

     The insecurity in his voice was palpable.  Preston tried to smile reassuringly as they rounded one of the houses, walking into a bright patch of moonlight.  A breeze ruffled the grass and blew Shaun’s hair into his face as Dogmeat lifted his muzzle and sniffed.

     “What’s wrong, boy?” Shaun asked when the shepherd let out a low growl.  Preston tensed.

     “You should go back inside, Shaun,” he said, peering across the brush-choked lake.  He didn’t see or hear anything, but if Dogmeat was upset, that was enough for him.

     Shaun nodded and moved to grab Dogmeat’s collar, just as a bullet punched a hole into the metal wall behind them.  The report of a rifle echoed half a second behind.  Preston grabbed the back of Shaun’s shirt and yanked him back, shielding him as more bullets showered over them.  Dogmeat took off into the darkness, jaws snapping viciously and growls echoing through the darkness.

     “Dogmeat!”

     Shaun tried to chase after the shepherd but Preston kept a solid grip around him, practically dragging the boy through the brush and out of the line of fire.  The siren had gone off and the sounds of settlers shouting reached them through the darkness.

     “Get to the cellar, now,” Preston ordered, “Stay down, don’t stop at all.  Understand?”

     “But Dogmeat!”

     “He’ll be fine, I promise,” Preston answered, “He’s tough.  Go, now, and don’t come out until I get you.”

     Shaun nodded obediently and took off towards the cellar, a supply cache and shelter Preston and Nora had fortified not long after the first major attack on Sanctuary.   Preston breathed a short sigh of relief as the little boy disappeared into a group of children and adults headed for safety, then cranked his laser musket.

     Whoever had decided to target Sanctuary had picked a good night; the fog made it difficult to see anything and the walkways were slick with mud.  He could make out a few figures across the water, moving amongst the trees, but it was impossible to say how many there were or what they might be armed with.  The sniper seemed to be nested in the hills to his right, though he’d stopped shooting as soon as Preston had taken cover.  He needed to get out of the bushes and regroup with the other Minutemen.

     He inched himself up along the metal wall, finger poised over the trigger, and peered around the edge of the house.  The Minutemen were engaged at the front gates near the bridge, a solid line keeping anything from crossing.  Preston felt a momentary surge of pride and then glanced around in confusion.  The attackers across the water had stopped shooting and Dogmeat’s barking had faded into the distance.  Those near the bridge didn’t seem to be aiming for anything in particular, running back and forth amongst the trees and shooting wildly at whatever they could.  Either they were high as vertibirds, or they were testing the defenses.

     Preston fired over the line of Minutemen, catching a tree trunk.  Scorched leaves and wood splinters rained down, sending three Raiders scattering like radroaches.  He fired again and a woman went down, clutching her leg and swearing.  Another pop of gunfire and one of her friends fell as blood bloomed in a disgusting shower around his head.

     “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

     The remaining two Raiders took off through the trees, disappearing east into the trees and fog.  Silence fell and Preston let out a frustrated sigh. 

     “Let me go, you fuckers!”

     The woman he’d shot in the leg was shouting, struggling against the two Minutemen who had hauled her up off the ground between them.

     “What should we do with her, Colonel?”

     Preston considered for a moment, and then nodded back towards the settlement. “Take her to the clinic,” he said, “Have Sarah or Curie fix her up.  I want to talk to her before we decide anything else.”

     “Fuck you, asshole!”

     Preston felt like responding – _you attacked a peaceful settlement but I’m willing to waste precious supplies on you, so yeah, fuck me –_ but ignored her.  The Minutemen looked doubtful but obeyed without questions, practically dragging the woman away as she continued to struggle between them.

     “Garvey!”

     Preston turned to see two figures running towards him from the direction of Abernathy Farm, led by Dogmeat.  The taller of the two was Danse, his rifle held at the ready.

     “Looks like we’re late.”

     “They took off as soon as they lost their advantage,” Preston replied, “I think they were testing us.  Did Dogmeat actually go get you guys?”

     “I heard him barking,” Danse’s companion replied.  He was a skinny, freckled kid, his Minuteman hat almost too big for his head.  He had joined only a few weeks before and Nora had immediately assigned him to work with Danse, a veteran soldier she knew would teach him well.

     Danse nodded in agreement. “We were on patrols,” he said, “We heard the gunfire and then him.  Some of the attackers were attempting to escape in our direction.”

     “How many were there?”

     “Five or six,” Danse replied, “We shot down four and at least one escaped.”

     Preston sighed. “There was a sniper,” he said, “I need a group to go and find his nest, make sure he’s not hanging around still.  Danse, can you come with me?”

     “Yes, sir,” he answered, then turned to his protégé. “Get backup.  At least two others.  Find the nest and report back immediately.”

     The kid nodded wordlessly and hurried off into the dark, cradling his rifle like a child.  Preston raised an eyebrow at Danse.

     “You really don’t have to call me ‘sir’, you know.”

     “In private, no,” he said, “But in official business, staying professional makes our ranks and boundaries clear.”

     “I guess so,” Preston replied.  He knew Danse was correct, of course, but it still felt strange to have someone older and probably more experienced acting under him.

     “What did you need me for?”

     “They left one of their friends behind,” Preston replied, shouldering his musket and heading in the direction of the clinic. “I’m pretty sure they were testing our defenses, but I want to see if we can get anything out of her.”

     “Abandoning the usual approach?”

     Preston shrugged.  While it had never been made an official policy, Nora was not known for taking prisoners or interrogating anyone for information.  Had she been there, the injured Raider would have been executed; it was one of the few things they disagreed on. 

     Inside the clinic, the two Minutemen were positioned on either side of the Raider woman, who had been laid out on a table that served as an examination bed.  Her wrists were tied and Haylen was cleaning a large burn on her leg.  When Preston and Danse entered, she sat up and sneered.

     “What’s first?  You want to break my kneecaps and see if I’ll give up our camp?”

     Preston shook his head. “You were testing our defenses,” he said, “Yes or no?”

     The woman’s sneer widened. “We were just having fun.”

     “No one has fun with Sanctuary,” Preston replied, “We’re too far out to hit for the hell of it.”

     “You’re right,” the woman smiled and shrugged, “You figured us out.  Take my kneecaps then, but I ain’t givin’ you my camp.”

     “I don’t want your location,” Preston said, “I want to know why.”

     “Why?”

     “Raiders aren’t strategists.  They don’t get organized and test settlement defenses.  They’re too drugged out and stupid for that.”

     The woman’s sneer faltered. “Fuck you.”

     “Prove us wrong,” Danse interjected, “What are you in it for?  Cheap thrills, or do you just have a death wish?”

     “I wanted to see what it felt like to get hit by a laser musket.”

     Preston held in a sigh.  He was too tired for this kind of round-robin bullshit. “Save yourself the bullet between the eyes,” he said, “And just answer the damn question.”

     “What’s in it for me?”

     “I won’t tell General Wilson that you almost shot her son,” Preston replied, “I’m sure if she knew she’d be more than happy to feed you to the mirelurks one piece at a time.”

     The woman didn’t respond right away, but Preston saw a flicker of fear behind her eyes.  He waited a moment and then shrugged.

     “Fine,” he said, “It’s late.  Danse, can you make arrangements to take this gentlewoman to the Castle first thing in the morning?”

     “Yes, sir.”

     He turned to leave.

     “Caps!”

     “Caps?”

     “Yeah, you know, little round things you can buy shit with?” the woman snapped, “Some guy offered us a fucking fortune to scope this place out.”

     “Can you be more specific about ‘some guy’?” Danse asked, frowning. “A name?”

     “What, do you think we keep a transaction log?” the woman snapped, “Some bearded dick outside the city.  Said he was a doctor.”

     “Diamond City?”

     “Yeah.  He wanted us to look at Sanctuary Hills, Oberland Station, and Finch Farm.  Boss split us up and gave us half our share upfront.”

     “What kind of information did this patron of yours want?”

     “Defenses, population numbers, what caravan drivers came through,” the woman said, “That’s all I know.”

     Preston nodded and exchanged a dark look with Danse.  This was not what he had expected and it certainly didn’t bode well.  Haylen closed her supply case and stood; she looked like she wanted to say something but was interrupted by mechanical whirring as Codsworth flew in.

     “Mr. Garvey,” he began, “I do apologize for interrupting, I know you’re busy --

     “It’s alright, Codsworth,” Preston said, “What do you need?”

     “It’s young Shaun,” Codsworth replied, “He refuses to leave the shelter; he said he was told not to until you came to get him personally.”

     Preston winced.  He’d forgotten about that and assumed he would be alright with the other adults.

     “I’ll finish this, sir,” Danse said, “If you’d like to take care of him.”

     Preston nodded. “Get as much as you can out of her.”

     “Yes, sir.”

     Codsworth led the way to the cellar shelter.  Oil lamps had been lit inside, illuminating the dusty stairs inside.  Shaun was parked on a bedroll in the corner, clutching his baby sister like a lifeline.  Lucy was sitting next to him, holding Hazel.  She smiled when Preston came down the stairs.

     “See?” she said, smiling at Shaun. “I told you he’d come right away.”

     Shaun turned huge brown eyes on him.  He was pale and still, obviously frightened.

     “It’s alright, Shaun,” Preston said, “Why don’t you and Anne go on in to bed?  It’s getting pretty late.”

     “Is it safe?”

     “Of course,” he replied, “We took care of them and nobody got hurt.”

     The little boy nodded but didn’t move. “Dogmeat didn’t come back.”

     “Dogmeat is just fine,” Preston assured him, “He helped us out.  I’m sure he’s pretty tired, too.”

     “Mom and Hancock aren’t there,” he said, glancing past Preston to the stairs. “What if…?”

     “You can stay with us if you want,” Lucy interrupted, giving him another smile. “You’ll have Preston, Dogmeat, and Codsworth right there.”

     Shaun hesitated and then nodded reluctantly.  Still holding Anne to his chest, he allowed Codsworth to lead him out of the cellar ahead of Preston and Lucy.

     “It’s the first time anyone’s attacked since he got here,” Lucy said to Preston as they walked, “Poor thing was petrified.”

     Preston nodded as a pang of guilt hit him. “Was everyone else okay?”

     “Just fine.”

     He put an arm around her shoulders and glanced down at their daughter with a tired smile.  Hazel was fast asleep, nestled into Lucy’s chest contentedly, barely visible inside her mass of blankets.  He was about to offer to take her when a single gunshot rang out from the direction of the clinic.

     Preston turned and raced towards the building wordlessly, joined at the doorway by Dogmeat, who stood tense and alert.  He took in the scene before him and deflated.

     Blood and brain matter splattered the back wall, a gory crown for the Raider woman.  A pair of bloody scissors laid next to her limp hand and Haylen was sprawled on the floor nearby.  Danse knelt beside her, helping her hold an old rag to a bleeding wound on her neck.  One of the Minutemen guards held the smoking gun, hands shaking.  He, too, was bleeding, from a deep slash on one arm.

     “I-I’m sorry, sir,” he stammered, looking between Preston and Danse, white-faced and wide-eyed. “We untied her to – to – so Haylen could do a full exam and she grabbed the scissors --”

     “It’s alright, Jackson,” Preston replied, shaking his head. “Haylen, how bad are you hurt?  Do I need to get Curie?”

     “I’ll live.”

     “I can stitch her up if need be,” Danse said, pulling back the bandage a bit to look at it.

     “Don’t do that, you’ll rip off my clots,” she instructed, pushing his hand away. “I taught you better than that.  Make yourself useful and go check on Duncan for me, alright?  I left him with Mama Murphy.  Jackson, grab the stimpaks; one for me and one for yourself.”

     She let Danse help her stand, still holding one hand to her wound. “Preston, go to bed,” she continued, glancing in his direction. “Danse can divide up the last of the watch.  You look ready to drop.”

     He was and the idea of sleeping while Hazel was settled was certainly appealing, but he wasn’t ready to slack off just yet.

     “I’ll finish my watch.”

     “Doctor’s orders, Colonel,” Haylen replied, smiling at him before jabbing a Stimpak into her shoulder near the collarbone. “Go on or I’ll lecture you on the effects of sleep deprivation.”

     “Which will put you to sleep, anyway,” Danse said, the corner of his mouth twitching a little. “Seriously, we’ve got it handled.”

     Preston nodded and rubbed his eyes. “Get me up the minute you see trouble.”

     “Will do, sir.”


	12. Dead or Dying

     “What in the name of God is _that_?”

     James smirked as Nora turned the binoculars towards the group of Super Mutants below them.

     “That is called a centaur,” he said, “You might remember them from your darkest nightmares.”

     Nora took another look at the bloated, fleshy creature and shivered. “That is _not_ a centaur.  Centaurs are half-man, half-horse.  That is…half radiation, half what the fuck.”

     “Whoever named them didn’t have the luxury of an education in ancient Greek mythology,” James said, “Or maybe they did and just had bad eyesight --”

     “How do we kill them?” Hancock interrupted, “They’re blocking the entrance to the tunnels.”

     “Shotgun to the…facial area,” James replied, waving his hand indistinctly at his own face.

     “Does a .308 work?”

     “I guess so,” James said, “But we’re like a half a mile away…”

     Nora glanced back through the binoculars and then shrugged. “It’ll be tight, but I can get one or two in,” she said, “Can you bring them a tad closer, John?”

     Hancock smiled and loaded a pair of shells into his shotgun. “Anything for you, Sunshine.”

     James glanced at Charon. “Anything for his Sunshine,” he repeated, “And she doesn’t even pay him.”

     Charon stared, brow furrowed a little, but didn’t say anything.  James sighed.

     “It was a joke, dude.”

     “Are you drunk?”

     “No, I’m not drunk.”

     Nora cleared her throat. “Um…guys?  Super Mutants and creatures from the recesses of hell at twelve o’clock.”

     “I’ll take left,” Charon replied, “James, can you go right?  If Hancock is going towards the front, we may be able to sneak around and take them from behind.”

     “Ooh, kinky.”

     Charon scoffed in disgust and turned away, unholstering his own shotgun.  Nora hooked her binoculars back into her belt and checked her rifle scope.  Hancock seemed to take that as his cue, crouching and hurrying down the mountain of rubble.  He wasn’t very stealthy, especially with the bright red coat, but he was quick and agile.  Charon took off to the left, as he’d planned, looping around just as the first blast from Hancock’s shotgun echoed around the clearing. 

     “Let’s have some fun, shall we?” James asked, grinning at Nora.  She glanced over and gave him the smallest of smiles back.

 

     Charon had not had much chance to judge Nora and Hancock’s skills in combat, though their trip into and through the metro tunnels gave him ample opportunity.  James had always been a decent shot, able to clear most enemies in one or two tries, but the months he’d spent wandering the Wasteland before buying Charon’s contract had given him a taste for Psycho and melee weapons.  As such, Charon spent more of his time making sure the idiot vaultie didn’t get himself killed than developing a working repertoire.

     Nora and Hancock, however, worked like a well-oiled machine, playing off each other as the group plowed through herds of Ferals and a particularly vicious Raider gang holed up inside one of the metro stations.  In close quarters, they both wielded shotguns, though at one point during the fight Nora abandoned hers in favor of a nondescript  10mm she kept in a hip holster.  She was almost a sharpshooter, taking Raiders out with quick, controlled, and precise movements, grouping her shots in center mass like a pro.  As Hancock clotheslined a Raider making a beeline for him, she dropped to one knee and, with two short pops of her handgun, the man was down with a bullet through his cheek.

     “Whoo-hoo, I like this woman,” James crowed, shaking blood off his bat and twirling it.  His eyes were glassy and unfocused, face flushed, a stupid grin plastered across his face, but he didn’t seem to be hallucinating, at least.

     “Hancock, I might have to steal this gal from you,” he continued, “If, that is, you still like guys with an intact epidermis--”

     “Ignore him, he’s an asshole when he’s high,” Charon interjected, though Nora and Hancock both looked little more than bemused.

     “So is she,” Hancock replied with a shrug, “And better men than him have tried to seduce her.  She’s got a ghoul fetish.”

     “I do not have a _ghoul fetish_ ,” Nora snapped, “Quit saying that because Shaun keeps asking people what a fetish is and now everyone thinks--”

     “Those rumors are Deacon’s fault, not Shaun’s,” Hancock replied as James howled with laughter, “I need a ten-minute breather, you in?”

     He pulled a Jet inhaler from his pocket and rattled it at her.  Nora shook her head.

     “I had three Mentats this morning,” she replied, “They’re still in my system.”

     “I’ll join you,” James said, “Charon, where’d you put my chem bag?”

     “In the garbage where it belongs.”

     “I got ya’ covered,” Hancock interrupted before James could answer.  As the two settled at a makeshift camp nearby, Nora took to looting the Raider bodies.  Charon joined her, helping roll over a body just out of earshot of the group.

     “I’m sorry I underestimated you.”

     Nora looked up and frowned. “Sorry?”

     “Yesterday when we got off the boat,” Charon explained, “I assumed that because of your origins and stature, and your illness on the boat, that you would be unable to take care of yourself in a fight.  I assumed incorrectly and I apologize.  Your skill is actually quite impressive.”

     She smiled at him, .38 rounds clinking in her palm as she counted them. “Thanks,” she said, “I wasn’t offended, really.”

     “Where did you learn to shoot?”

     “In Concord, with a Deathclaw standing on my chest,” she replied, “What about you?  Army, Navy, Marines, or Air Force?”

     Charon gaped at her for a moment, trying to formulate a response.

     “My husband was a first lieutenant in the Army,” she said, “You’ve got the same kind of precision he learned there.  The way you stand and speak and how quickly you can disassemble, clean, and reassemble that gun.”

     Charon looked away and nodded tersely. “Marines,” he said, “Were you…?”

     Nora snorted in amusement. “I was a ballerina and then a lawyer,” she said, “Everything I know about surviving – except a few self-defense tricks – I learned while trying to survive.”

     “And the Deathclaw?”

     “I swear on my son’s life that the story is 100% true,” she replied, “I’ll tell you sometime.”

 

     It was quiet in Evergreen Mills.  Too quiet.  George paced restlessly around the old mill, scowling at the sun and finally settling in the shade of an old train car.  He’d never liked the heat before and two hundred years of relentless sunshine hadn’t changed his mind. 

     He closed his eyes and leaned against the metal of the train car.  Lyssa would have a conniption fit if she saw him out here, uncovered and uncaring, but she was asleep like the rest of them and he didn’t really give a shit.

     “Daddy, you’re going to get shot out in the open like this,” Jane said, “You don’t want that as bad as you pretend you do.”

     He looked over at her and squinted.  She shimmered and wavered, a mirage like in those old Westerns he used to watch as a kid.  Lyssa had been offering him Psycho anytime they went outside the mill, but he couldn’t tell if Jane was an after-effect of his last dose or not.

     “You’re going feral, honey,” Renee replied, as if she’d read his mind. “I started seeing things, too, remember?”

     “What do you mean, feral?”

     Renee smiled sadly at Nora.  She was seated nearby, Jane and Nora on either side of her. “When a ghoul loses his mind, we call it going feral,” she explained, “You’re what, 289 now, George?  That’s a lot of years and a lot of radiation eating away at your gray matter.”

     “Maybe someone will finally put a bullet in me, then,” George mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

     “Suicide is a mortal sin, Grandpa,” Nora replied, “That’s what you taught me.”

     “It is,” Jane agreed, nodding at her daughter. “Remember when Alan died and I wanted to drive my car off I-93?”

     There was an accusatory tone to her voice.  George sighed and shook his head.

     “You still had a purpose then, sweet pea.”

     “You’ve got a purpose now,” Renee said, “You just have to accept it.”

     “You have to make them pay for it, Grandpa,” Nora said, “All of it.”

     “They’re all dead,” George replied as his three girls wavered in the heat like reflections on water.  He’d watched it crumble and fade away in the last two centuries – the U.S. government, Vault-Tec, the Enclave, the Chinese Army, the Soviets.  Dozens of raider groups and mercenary outfits that claimed Quincy.  Farmers, settlers, families.  The Commonwealth Provisional Government, the Minutemen, the Institute.  Dead or dying.

     He’d watched it all come and go, the only constant at his side his Renee.

     And then she was gone, and he hung on.

     He couldn’t bring himself to stick a pistol in his mouth, and no one gave half a fuck about an ancient ghoul who had retained most of his faculties.

     “You can’t have a family again.”

     “What’s the point in trying to farm this radioactive desert?”

     “Put yourself out there.  You might get your wish at last.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter, but hopefully it does something for the characters.
> 
> See you all next year :-D


	13. Holes

     The sun was just beginning to dip below the city skyline to the west when the group emerged from the metro tunnels.  The rusty gates squealed when James shoved them open, ushering the rest out into the open air.  Nora squinted against the sudden brightness, glad to be out at last – the air wasn’t _fresh_ , per se, but it was a damn sight better than the garbage-clogged alleyways underground that stank of ferals and Raider piss.

     As she hurried up the steps away from the gate, the mall came into full view.  The sight was like a punch to the gut, a small gasp leaving her like a wheeze.  She had known, in theory, that it wouldn’t look the same.  It wouldn’t be the sunny expanse of marble and concrete, dotted with trees and tourists and park benches, but she hadn’t expected it to be a _battlefield._

     “It sounds like they’re taking a break at the moment,” James said, coming up behind her. “This is always a Super Mutant and Brotherhood hotspot.  The museum is just over there.”

     He pointed across the trenches towards a massive gray-brick building.  Even from a distance, Nora could see the rubble surrounding it and the scorched pockmarks where missiles and miniguns had hit.

     “Underworld is in there?”

     “In one of the old exhibit wings,” James explained, “The Super Mutants leave the ghouls alone and since the building’s got no real strategic value, the Brotherhood doesn’t want it.  If your grandparents made it here, there’s a good chance they were safe as long as they didn’t leave.”

     “We should get moving,” Charon said, pulling his shotgun from its holster on his back.  James nodded in agreement.

     “It’s a quick run across,” he explained, “Just keep an eye out for the trenches.  That’s where they like to hide.”

     “You alright, Sunshine?”

     Nora glanced over at Hancock and shrugged. “It’s just different,” she replied, checking that her 10mm was fully-loaded. “We visited the summer before the bombs, when they dedicated the Anchorage Memorial.”

     “Makes you wonder how the Commonwealth escaped so intact,” he said, and Nora shrugged again.

     “Let’s just get moving.”

     The group took off across the expanse of barren, ash-covered land, Charon leading the way around trenches and across piles of broken concrete and rusted rebar.  Nora could smell the blood, still fresh from a stand-off that had probably happened while they were still in the metro tunnels, and the gunpowder clinging to everything like smoke.  She tried to keep her eyes down, watching where she put her feet, but when Charon stopped them behind a ten-foot high pile of debris, she hazarded a glance up at the Washington Monument.

     It was still standing, though barely.  Huge chunks of marble had fallen away from the underlying structure, some of them poorly patched with mismatched materials.  An antenna of some sort had been rigged to the top and ragged flags had been erected around the base.

     “All clear,” she heard Charon say.  She took a step forward and stumbled, her foot catching on an abandoned shotgun in the dirt, and landed roughly on her hands and knees.  She swore as Hancock put a hand under her elbow to help her up, grabbing for her gun and bag.  Before she could straighten up and regain her bearings, two rifle shots pierced the quiet.

     Hancock fell with a grunt, collapsing against her as dark blood bloomed over  his back.  She felt the bullet slam against her shoulder, ripping through his chest but stopped finally by the ballistic weave of her shirt.  As pain rocketed through her arm and chest, her knees gave out.  She heard James yelling nearby and a third bullet rocketed into the dirt between them.

     “Son of a bitch!” James screeched, crouched behind the debris pile. “Are those fuckers seriously taking potshots at us?!”

     Nora didn’t answer.  She rolled Hancock over, her heart thudding desperately.  He wasn’t moving, blood drenching the white shirt under his coat.

     “No, no, no,” she whimpered, pressing a hand to the wound just to the right of his breastbone. “John, wake up.  Come on, you’re okay.  James, I need –”

     “I’ve got him,” James interrupted, reaching under Hancock’s arms and pulling him away from her. “I’ll make a run for the museum.  Stay here with Charon.”

     Before she could protest, he’d lifted Hancock and slung the ghoul over his shoulders, running hunched in the direction of the museum.  Nora glanced around and found Charon lying propped against a cement block, blood leaking from a bullet wound in his thigh.  He was grumbling to himself, looking mildly annoyed as he undid his belt and laced it around his injured leg, tightening it into a makeshift tourniquet.

     “Are you okay?”

     “I’d be better if a Brotherhood sniper hadn’t just ripped open my femoral artery,” he replied acidly, “But I’ve had worse.”

     Nora glanced around their cover.  She dropped her bag and handgun a few feet away; all of her Stimpaks were in the bag.  The shots had come from the direction of the Monument and she was willing to bet the flags she couldn’t quite make out were Brotherhood.

     “Every time I think I can ignore those assholes, they stick a bullet in him,” she muttered, straightening a little and shifting just out of cover.  No one shot at her, so she moved quickly and grabbed her bag and gun, sliding back into the dirt next to Charon.

     “Here,” she said, handing him a Stimpak. “Can you walk?”

     “Give me five minutes.”

     Nora looked in the direction James had run.  She didn’t see him anywhere, which hopefully meant he’d made it inside the museum where it was safe.  But Hancock didn’t have anything on him but spare ammunition and Mentats, and she hadn’t seen James carrying much of a medkit, either.

     “There’s a doctor in Underworld,” Charon said, shifting his injured leg so he could stand. “James will get him there.”

     Nora tried to respond, but her words stuck in her throat.  Her eyes burned as she looked away from Charon.  She’d barely survived losing Nate; she couldn’t lose Hancock, too.

     She looked up and cleared her throat, reaching over to grab his hat.  She shook the dust off and shoved it down on her own head, then grabbed her bag and swung it onto her back.

     “Ready?”

     She stood and nodded.  Charon seemed a shaky and sweaty, but he’d stopped bleeding and removed the tourniquet.  He limped alongside her silently as they made their way towards the museum.  Nora let out a sigh of relief when they slipped into the cover of the old building.  A ghoulette stood near the front entrance, a rifle leaned against the wall next to her.  As they approached, she took a drag off her cigarette and shook her head.

     “Got you both, huh?” she asked, “They’re improving.”

     “Do they take shots at everyone who passes through?” Nora asked, thinking briefly that she might just strangle Maxson this time and be done with it.

     “Only the rad-freaks,” the woman replied, flicking her ash. “And mutants, of course.  And anyone traveling with either, though they always seem to miss the smoothies.”

     “Head north to the Commonwealth if you get a chance,” Nora said, “We ran the Brotherhood off before they sunk their claws in too deep.”

 

     It was dark inside the museum, sunlight barely struggling through the boarded-over windows.  A fine layer of dust seemed to coat everything in their path, marred only by a line of shuffling footprints and a trail of blood that led to a set of double doors.  There was a massive preserved mammoth still standing nearby; next to it, a Super Mutant had parked himself on what looked like a throne made of old books and other bits of junk.  He was reading a large tome with a dirt-streaked cover, glasses tied around his face the same way Virgil had worn his. 

     “Our mutual friend just went inside,” the mutant said, glancing up at Charon and then back down at his book.

     Charon nodded curtly, limping ahead of Nora to open the doors.  She nodded her thanks and stepped inside as her heart thudded in her chest.  Two separate trains of thought warred inside her head, the desperate hope that she might turn a corner and find her grandparents and the need to know that Hancock hadn’t bled out before James could get him to the doctor.

     As the doors opened, lantern light flooded over them.  A ghoul in patched coveralls was busy mopping up the trail of blood that had continued inside.  He looked up, gaze lingering on Nora for a minute before settling on Charon.

     “Long time, no see,” he rasped, pushing his mop along the cracked tile. “I was starting to wonder if you two had finally bit it.”

     “We’ve been up north,” Charon replied, “And other places.”

     “Well, Dr. Barrows just opened up the radiation chamber for the other guy,” the ghoul with the mop said, “Better go get your spa treatment.”

     He nodded down the dark hallway and Nora took off, nearly sprinting past the other ghouls milling around.  There was a sign and another set of double doors at the end of the hallway; without stopping to ask anyone, she yanked open the doors and stumbled inside.

     “I was just about to come look for you guys.”

     James was sitting in a nearby chair, hooked to an IV of Rad-Away.  He looked pale and tired, but none the worse for wear.

     “Is he okay?”

     “In twenty minutes or so, he’ll be right as rain,” James said, pointing to a large glass window across the room.  A white-coated ghoul stood in front of it, scribbling something on a clipboard.  Behind the glass were a pair of ferals, shuffling from one end of the chamber to the other aimlessly.  Sitting on the floor between them, stripped of his shirt and coat but still breathing, was Hancock.  Nora laid her head on the glass and breathed a heavy sigh, her heart rate dropping back towards normal.  Hancock glanced up and gave her a weak smile.

     “Are you the, uh, significant other?”

     Nora turned to the doctor and nodded.  He looked her up and down for a moment , brow furrowed, and then cleared his throat.

     “The bullet missed his heart,” he said, “Nicked the artery, but we got him in the radiation chamber just in time.”

     “Is that an intercom?”

     “Yes, if you want to--”

     Nora punched the button without waiting for him to finish. “John, I ought to beat you fucking senseless,” she half-shouted, “What’s it going to take for you to realize _you need to wear armor --”_

     “I don’t think that’s constructive criticism at the moment,” the doctor scolded, frowning at her. “If you aren’t injured, you should take a seat.”

     She huffed a breath and turned away, throwing herself into the chair next to James as Charon joined them.  The adrenaline still coursing through her was making her stomach twist and she felt as exhausted as if she’d just sprinted a mile.  After taking a few moments to compose herself, she looked up at James.

     “Thank you.”

     He shrugged as he pulled the Rad-Away IV from his arm. “Told you I’d get you to Underworld safely,” he replied, “I may be a drunk, but I don’t half-ass things.”

     She smiled gratefully. “Either way.  I appreciate it.”

     “What were your grandparents’ names, by the way?” James asked, “I can ask around if you want to wait here for Hancock.”

     “Doyle,” Nora answered, “George and Renee.”

     James nodded and stood.  The doctor turned from his position at the glass window and stared at her.

     “You’re looking for George and Renee?”

     “You know them?”

     “I did,” the doctor replied, “Renee, she…”

     He glanced back at the two ferals in the radiation chamber and then back to Nora.

     “She succumbed,” he said after a moment, “A while ago.  Are you friends of their’s from up north?”

     Nora didn’t respond as yet another hole opened up in her chest.


	14. Secrets and Diplomacy

     Nora stared into the chipped porcelain sink as the water circled the drain, cloudy with old blood.  She had tried to clean their shirts, but most of it had remained behind stubbornly, rusty-red stains an ominous reminder of their long, shitty day.  She wondered if her grandmother had known how to remove stubborn bloodstains and then let out a short laugh that dissolved into a harsh sob.

     She knew children were meant to outlive their parents, but it didn’t make it suck any less.

     “Hey, love.”

     Nora turned as Hancock pulled her into a tight embrace, resting her head against his shoulder.  He was still warm from the radiation chamber, his skin almost feverishly hot on her cheek.  She could smell the Mentats and Jet on him like a wasteland cologne.

     “What’d you find out?”

     Nora sighed and closed her eyes before answering. “Grandpa left a few months ago,” she said, “No one’s seen him since.”

     “No idea where he went?”

     “Nothing concrete.  Dr. Barrows said he’d mentioned some settlement northwest of here, but it’s been hard for anybody to get in and out with that sniper at the door, so no one’s gotten news of any kind.”

     She opened her eyes long enough to sneak a glance at the new scar of his chest, a pink, raw pucker of skin a few inches below his collarbone.  There was still one above his knee from the last time the Brotherhood had attempted sniping him, back in Cambridge.

     “When do you want to leave?”

     Nora pulled back and frowned. “What do you mean?”

     “For the settlement.”

     “Oh.”

     “You’re not giving up now, are ya’?”

     “No,” Nora replied, “Not really.  I just…I’m a little gun-shy, no pun intended.  That’s the second time some Brotherhood asshole has shot you, and now we’re in _their_ territory.”

     Hancock let go of her, his hands sliding up to grip her shoulders. “Sunshine, it’s going to take a lot more than a dickhead in power armor to kill me.”

     “You’re not invincible, John.”

     “I’ve got our deaths planned out already,” he answered, giving her the smallest hint of a smirk. “You and me are going to keep kickin’ ass and huffing Jet for another twenty or thirty years and then – when Shaun and Anne are old enough to take over for us – we’re going to have one last day to slaughter bad guys and have obnoxiously vigorous sex, then we’ll give up the ghosts warm in bed like that stupid old cliché.”

     Nora gave a weak laugh and swiped at her face, sniffing loudly. “You’re optimistic.”

     “I learned it from you.”

     Nora laid her head back on his chest.  She was exhausted and sore, heartsick and homesick all at once.  She missed her children and her own bed, she missed the constant hum and movement of a Minuteman settlement and Dogmeat bringing her every bit of junk he happened to nose out when they traveled.  She had hoped so badly to bring her family, the last of her blood from before the war, back to Sanctuary, but that was looking less and less likely to happen.

     “How’s your shoulder?”

     She shrugged. “Bruised but alright.”

     “Should probably put some of that ballistic weave in my coat.”

     Nora resisted the urge to roll her eyes.  For _months_ she had been trying to convince him to let her sew in the ballistic weave, but he’d always steadfastly refused in case his beloved red coat fell apart with her tinkering.

     “In the mean time, you’re going to wear regular armor, like a normal person.”

     “No arguments here.”

     He kissed the top of her head and stood back from her. “I need a stiff drink before turning in after today,” he said, “Care to join me?”

     Nora shook her head. “I just want to sleep more than anything.”

     She was halfway under their unzipped sleeping bags when she noticed him searching the inner pockets of his coat for something.

     “I put everything in the front pocket of my bag,” she offered, resting her head on her fist.  He mumbled a reply and knelt to unzip the pocket, retrieving a black leather pouch and his penknife.

     “Is that the mysterious whittling project you’ve been working on every time I’m asleep?”

     He glanced up at her, brow furrowed, and she smirked.

     “Yeah, I noticed.  You leave wood shavings all over the place.”

     “Shoulda known,” he replied, shaking his head and stuffing the back in the pocket of his shirt.

     “What’re you making?”

     “If I wanted you to know, I wouldn’t be working on it while you’re asleep, now would I?”

     “Is it for me?”

     “You’ll find out when I’m finished.  Patience, love.”

     “So it _is_ for me.”

     “I didn’t say that.”

     Nora made a face at him and flopped back onto the mattress.  She could see the flare of red from his lighter in the corner of her eye and smell the acrid smoke, then he kissed her once and was gone.

 

     “I could stab him.  In his sleep.”

     Charon glanced sideways at James.  His dinner was getting cold while he stared contemplatively at his hunting knife, the steel blade glinting in the dim light.

     “I don’t think that’s advisable.”

     James turned and narrowed his eyes at Charon. “ _They shot at me_ ,” he hissed, “They shot you.  And Hancock.  Could have killed the General of the Minutemen.  It sounds perfectly advisable to me.”

     “You don’t really have good judgment,” Charon replied, “And I think you’re taking this a bit personally.”

     “I’m a fucking honorary Knight, you’re damn right I’m taking it personally!”

     “Keep your voice down,” Charon replied irritably, stabbing at a bit of meat on his plate. “It’s not like you gave them your name and rank before they started shooting.”

     “I expected you to be on my side about this.”

     “If I contemplated murdering everyone who ever shot at me, I’d be plotting nonstop.”

     “What if I _ordered_ you to help me kill him?”

     “Then I would do it,” Charon replied with a dark sigh.

     “But you’d bitch about it the whole time.”

     “I do not ‘bitch’ about the things you do.  I give you my advice.”

     “Well, your advice sounds an awful lot like bitching to me.”

     “Most of what you say in general sounds like bitching to me.”

     Charon heard a low chuckle nearby and looked up as Hancock fell into the third seat at their table.  He had dressed in a nondescript set of denim and flannel, though he was still wearing that strange tricorn.

     “How long have you two been married?”

     James smirked and patted Charon’s arm. “Almost twelve years.”

     Charon jerked his arm away and growled as Hancock laughed again. “As if I would even entertain the idea.”

     “Of what?  A guy?  A smoothskin?”

     “Of _you_.”

     “Now that breaks my heart, Charon,” James replied, poking out his bottom lip.  Charon rolled his eyes and went back to his food, studiously ignoring his employer.  James sniggered and turned to Hancock.

     “I’m debating whether or not I should kill Maxson,” he said conversationally, “Would you be in if I decided to shank the bearded little bastard in his sleep?”

     Hancock seemed to think about it for a moment, flicking his ash. “In general, I’m all about stabbing people,” he replied finally, “But that’s a little ambitious, don’tcha think?  Unless you’re also going to take on his whole army at the same time.”

     James sighed and let his head fall on the table. “I forgot about the army.”

     Charon scoffed. “For fuck’s sake, James.”

     James looked at Hancock, his cheek still pressed into the wooden table. “How did you take over Goodneighbor?”

     “You’re asking for advice on how to stage a bloody coup?”

     “No,” James replied with a sigh, “Just – dictators.  Ugh.  The Brotherhood used to be something you _aspired_ to be a part of.  They helped me finish my father’s work.  They were _noble_.”

     “Your father’s work?”

     “Project Purity,” James replied, sitting up and scratching at the stubble on his chin. “Those big purifiers in the old Jefferson Memorial?  The Enclave wanted to take over it and control it.  They wanted to put a virus in the purifier that would have killed off any kind of non-human mutation and while I hate centaur, super mutants, and ferals as much as the next person, I’m not really the genocide type.”

      “They helped build that thing?” Hancock asked, “Shit.  Definitely doesn’t sound like a Brotherhood thing.”

     “Well, Dad and his colleagues did,” James said, “It’s a long story, but they did a lot for the Capital Wastes back in the day.  Delivered cases of purified water to the settlements for free.”

     Hancock nodded, thinking about how furious Nora had been to find out Brotherhood squads were taking supplies from Minuteman settlements.

     “So Maxson wasn’t…?”

     James snorted in disgust. “He’s barely big enough to fit his beard,” he said, “They made him Elder once Sarah died because he’s the descendant of the original founder of the Brotherhood.  Fucking King Arthur or something.”

     There was a beat of silence, then Charon spoke, mumbling as if to himself.

     “Roger was a good guy.”

     James frowned. “Roger Maxson?  You knew him?”

     Charon looked up from his plate as if surprised they’d heard him. “Collaborative training between branches of the military,” he replied, glancing away. “He lobbied against my – conditioning.  It was supposed to be a larger program.”

     James stared as if Charon had just revealed all the secrets of the universe to him. “Holy shit, man,” he said finally, eyes wide.

     Charon looked suddenly upset.  His posture tensed visibly and he stood, knocking his chair back with a clatter.  He turned to James with his hands balled at his side in fists.

     “Unless you have further instructions for me, I’d like to turn in.”

     “Uh, sure, yeah,” James stammered, shrugging. “Go ahead.”

     Charon nodded curtly and turned, marching out of the room without a backwards glance.  Hancock watched him leave before James turned to him.

     “You know, it took me almost a year to get his _shoe size_ ,” he said, “I still don’t know his real name, how old he is, or where he’s from…but every once in a blue moon, the stars just align right and he lets something like that slip.  Maybe by the time I’m on my deathbed, we can actually have a conversation or something.”

     Hancock frowned and lit another cigarette. “What did he mean by ‘conditioning’?  Some weird pre-war bullshit?”

     James shrugged. “Near as I can tell.  He’s unfailingly loyal to whichever ‘employer’ holds his contract, regardless of the danger or morality of the situation.  Why, I don’t know.  But he’s got his own morals because he gives me shit about certain things – as you’ve seen – and when I bought his contact, he immediately went and shot his old boss.”

     “He shot him?”

     “Three shotgun shells straight to the chest,” James replied, “Right over behind that bar.  Then walked away and asked if I had any first orders for him.”

     “That’s pretty fucked.”

     “You’re telling me.”

     Hancock nodded in agreement and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “If you and Nora make this diplomatic visit you’ve been discussing, you’re not going to actually attempt an assassination, are you?  Because if she gets hurt I will gut you like a radstag.”

     James blinked at him and then slumped in his chair. “No, I’m not,” he said, “I would really like to stab the little bastard, but I’m going to be good and try to talk to him properly.  Diplomacy or some shit Charon said.”

     “I hate that word,” Hancock replied, flipping open his pen knife and digging the bit of wood out to start work.

     “I hate it, too.”


	15. Babies

     “Mom.  Mom.  Mom, wake up.”

     Nora opened her eyes and glanced around.  She had fallen asleep on the couch and Shaun stood over her, brow furrowed.  Somewhere nearby, she could hear a baby crying.

     “What’s going on?”

     “They’re crying again.”

     “Who is?  Anne?” Nora asked, standing and rubbing her eyes.  The light felt too bright.

     “They all are,” Shaun replied.

     “What?”

     He grabbed the hem of her shirt and pulled her down the hallway.  The crying intensified.  There was more than one child.

     “Shaun started it,” Shaun said, pointing to the blue crib.

     “What are you talking about?” Nora asked, “You’re Shaun.”

     “No, I’m not.  I’m just a copy.”

     She felt hungover.  Everything was too bright, too loud.  Pain lanced through her forehead.

     “Go get me a bottle, please.”

     “How many?”

     Nora leaned over the edge of the crib and squinted.  There were three infants inside, each swaddled and screaming as they lied next to each other.

     “Shaun started crying and then Anne started, and then that one,” Shaun said, pointing.

     “Who is this?” Nora asked.  The little girl, wrapped in a patchwork blanket, turned her head and squalled.  She was young, brand new it looked, her skin still wrinkled.  She had a mass of soft black curls and a tiny birthmark on her chin that looked like a freckle.

     “You didn’t give her a name yet.”

     “What are you talking about?”

     “She probably won’t happen,” Shaun continued, “So maybe you shouldn’t name her.”

     “What do you mean, she won’t ‘happen’?” Nora asked.  She picked up the tiny girl and tried to rock her, but she kicked angrily and screamed louder.

     “Her chances are like, one in a billion,” Shaun continued, “How many is that, then, if one in every billion people could have one like her?  Or, maybe, it should be one in _two_ billion, since it takes two people to make her.”

     The girl screamed again.  Her face was red and puckered.  Her scream set off the other two; Nora set her back down and picked up Anne, curling the chubby girl into her shoulder and shushing her.

     “We have to give her back,” Shaun said, “She’s not really ours.  Her parents might be out there somewhere looking for her.”

     “We’re not giving her back,” Nora replied, clutching Anne closer.  Shaun rolled his eyes at her.

     “Mom, it’s not like you even deserve her,” he said, “You’re going to let Kellogg take Shaun and then blame everything else on that.  I mean, you get me, but I’m just a copy so I don’t count.”

     Anne fussed into her shirt as Nora bounced her gently.  The other infants were still crying, louder and louder.  The pain in her head intensified and her ears rang.

     “You better get ready,” Shaun said, “There’s a lot of explaining to do.”  


     Nora opened her eyes as she heard the click of the door lock.  The only sound she could heard was the shuffling of fabric and the squeak of the springs as Hancock slid into bed behind her.  She breathed a sigh of relief and let him pull her close.

     “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

     She shook her head. “I had a very strange dream.”

     “Bad strange?”

     Nora struggled for an answer.  The details of the dream were slipping away from her like water through a sieve, dissolving into sounds and vague colors.  It had left her unsettled though, anxious and nauseous like she’d done something wrong.

     “How many people know Shaun’s a synth?” she asked, staring into the darkness.  She felt Hancock shrug behind her.

     “Only a few, I think,” he replied and pressed a kiss to her neck, “Preston and MacCready.  Nick, Curie, me and you.  He’s pretty chatty, though, so he may have mentioned it to other people himself.  Why?”

     “I worry about him,” Nora said, “Not everyone is… _accepting_.  Especially since he’s kind of different even among synths.”

     “Are you worrying about him being kid-sized forever?”

     “No,” Nora said, shifting towards Hancock. She could just make out his face in the darkness. “He was supposed to just be a…replacement.”

     Hancock was silent for a moment and then nodded. “I know what your son intended when he made Shaun,” he said, “But it doesn’t really matter, does it?  Whatever Shaun was supposed to be doesn’t matter because he’s ours.”

     Nora leaned into Hancock and sighed. “How do I explain that, though?”

     “Who are we planning on discussing this with in the near future?”

     “My grandpa,” she replied, “Everyone else I’ve told…it didn’t really matter in the long run what they thought.  You accepted Shaun and you were the only one that mattered.  But Grandpa…what if he thinks I’m insane?  How am I going to explain the whole thing with the Institute?  How am I going to admit that I --”

     “Alright, stop right there,” Hancock said, propping himself up on one elbow and looking down at her. “This is going nowhere good.  You don’t have to explain anything to anyone.  Not me, not even your grandfather.  You made a decision and that was between you and your son.  It’s done, it’s over with, it can’t be changed.  As for Shaun, you don’t have to justify his existence.”

     Nora sighed and rubbed her eyes tiredly. “You say that, but…I grew up getting his approval.  I wanted it, I needed it.  I’m a grown woman with a militia at my command and I’m afraid of what my grandpa will say.  Fuck, I don’t even look forward to him figuring out that you and I are sleeping together but aren’t actually married, as if the formalities really mattered in the apocalypse --”

     “Are you saying we should get married?”

     “Are you proposing?”

     “Would you say yes if I was?”

     “You’ll have to ask to get my answer.”

     “Can’t cheat, can I?”

     “Nope.”

     He pressed another kiss to her neck. “Can we at least pretend we’re married, then?”

     She leaned into him as his hand strayed down to the hem of her shirt, pushing back her anxieties and focusing instead on the cords of muscle in his back and the way he whispered her name.

  
     Haylen hid a yawn behind her fist as Duncan pounded his pestle into the mortar, grinding enthusiastically.  Normally, he and Shaun would be out and about through Sanctuary, but they’d appeared in the clinic when it began raining, complaining of boredom.  Shaun had brought his baby sister, whom he’d barely strayed from since the night of the attack, Dogmeat on his heels, and then Lucy had asked her to keep Hazel for an hour while she helped with some of the settlement work.  Everyone was mostly well-behaved and she’d set the boys to work to occupy them, but she was still exhausted.  She’d overslept that morning but wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed again and sleep for another six or seven hours.

     “Miss Sarah, what do you use these for?” Shaun asked, setting aside his pestle to inspect the crushed flowers in his bowl.

     “Lots of different things,” Haylen replied, stifling another yawn.  Her eyes watered with exhaustion.

     “They make medicine,” Duncan informed the older boy, “For when Daddy can’t sleep.”

     Shaun peered closer at the blossoms. “We should make a lot, then,” he said, “There’s bunches of people here that don’t sleep.  Hazel sleeps during the day instead of at night.  Mr. Danse doesn’t sleep and neither does Hancock.  Sometimes Anne doesn’t, either, and I see Mr. Garvey up at night a lot.”

     “Anne and Hazel are babies,” Haylen said, “Babies don’t have regular sleep schedules like kids and adults do.”

     She glanced over at the two infant girls, both passed out in a shared cradle nearby, and ached to join them.

     “Mom said Hancock doesn’t sleep much because he’s a ghoul,” Shaun continued, “But what about Mr. Danse?”

     “He’s just weird,” Haylen replied.

     “Done!” Duncan announced, dropping his pestle with a loud clunk onto the metal table.  He grinned and held up the mortar for her to inspect.  Haylen glanced into the bowl and nodded.  He’d crushed her carefully-gathered and dried blooms into an unusable powder, but she was too tired to care all that much.  If she had known the exhaustion would be so pervasive and overwhelming, she’d have been more careful…

     “Sarah!” Curie appeared in the open doorway, her voice teasingly sing-song. “Monsieur MacCready just arrived!”

     Haylen felt her stomach clench as Duncan hopped off his stool with an excited shout and ran out the door.  She’d meant to practice for this, but she’d been napping instead.  Curie’s grin faltered a little when she met her eyes.

     “Are you not excited?” she asked, “You should be so _joyful_!”

     “I am,” Haylen assured her, twisting the hem of her shirt nervously. “Underneath, I am.  But, you know.  It’s, um…”

     “Are you okay, Miss Sarah?” Shaun asked, narrowing his eyes at her the way his mother sometimes did, as if he could find the problem written on her forehead if he just looked closely.

     “I’m sure she’ll be okay,” Curie replied for her, still smiling. “Why don’t we let her have some space, hmm?  Come on.”

     She bustled him out the door with the girls, both of them wrapped up against the spring drizzle, and winked at Haylen as she left.  Dogmeat followed them obediently out the door and then she was alone, sitting at her worktable and fiddling with her tools.

     Ten minutes later, MacCready walked in, Duncan hanging from him like a squirming necklace.  Haylen sat still and fought the opposing urges to both grin wildly and throw up.

     “Hello, beautiful,” he said, letting Duncan slide to the floor. “Working hard?”

     “We helped,” Duncan supplied, “Me and Shaun.”

     “Sounds like fun,” MacCready answered.  Duncan nodded proudly and clambered into the seat next to Haylen, grabbing for the mortar and pestle again.  MacCready fixed her with a careful gaze.

     “Sarah?  Something wrong?”

     She swallowed back the hard lump of anxiety in her throat and shook her head. “Nothing’s wrong,” she replied, “I just…um…”

     She glanced from him to Duncan.  If she said it in front of him, it’d be common knowledge across the settlement by dinnertime and she wasn’t quite ready for that.

     MacCready seemed to catch on. “Hey, Dunc, go grab Shaun for me, huh?  I’ve got a letter for him.”

     Duncan hopped back down and was gone.  Haylen breathed a sigh of relief.

     “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

     She nodded and let the words tumble out of her mouth before her nervousness got the best of her.

     “RJ, I’m pregnant.”


	16. Bait

     It didn’t take him long to figure out that the Castle wasn’t the right target. Even with parts of the walls collapsed, it was too well-fortified to be a viable option. They had let him in to set up shop as a doctor, but everything he needed – blueprints, settlement reports, maps, and the like – were kept under lock and key. The Castle was where everyone was always on alert and ready for the smallest sign of danger or disruption. He had to go to the settlements directly if he wanted information. Besides, she wasn’t in residence and there was no set schedule for her to be. She came when she was needed and left when she wasn’t, it seemed, true to her fickle, irresponsible nature.

     Lucky for him, farmers and caravan folk were a chatty bunch. Some nights all he had to do was sit and listen to pick up bits of useful information. Just as he quickly realized that the Castle wasn’t an option, he figured out his real one – Sanctuary Hills, a prewar neighborhood in the northwest corner of the Commonwealth where the General spent her off-time. Most of the caravans visited at least once a month and he attached himself to one with ease, leaving behind letters in Diamond City for Barnes. The ex-mercenary was starting to get impatient, but Clayton wasn’t going to rush things. There was no reason to half-ass this.

     Before leaving Diamond City, he hired the Raiders – bunch of chem-swilling degenerates, but they’d do just about anything for a quick pay-off – and told their leader where to meet him after it was done. Raiders were a good distraction, a common enemy that would keep the Minutemen looking left while he and Barnes came from the right

In the old cabin built along the crumbled remains of the freeway, the Raider was waiting for him like they’d planned. He’d snuck away from the caravan camp as soon as the drivers and guards were immersed in their beer and sleeping bags, crossing the mile over to the cabin in just the light of the moon. When he opened the door, Jade was sitting there, cigarette in hand, legs crossed and one foot bouncing impatiently.

     “You’re late.”

     Clayton ignored her and shut the door. “What’d you find?”

     “Nothing I’m interested in bothering with,” Jade replied, flicking her ash onto the floor. “Sanctuary is exactly that. A sanctuary. There’s tato patches and a clinic and lots of safeguards. There are children there.”

     “So?”

     “So, I don’t fuck with people when there are children around,” Jade snapped, shaking her head. “You ever tried to snag a yao gaui cub when Mom’s hanging around? It isn’t pretty. It’s not smart to get between parents and their kids, and it’s not fair.”

     “Who ever said anything about ‘fair’? I didn’t pay you to play fair.”

     “Then you can find someone else,” she said, standing and tossing her cigarette butt down. She smashed it underneath the toe of one boot and looked back up at him, flipping her braids over her shoulder.

     “I don’t fuck with people when there are children around,” she replied, “I’m a raider, not a fucking monster, okay? We knock over caravans and rob Gunners and generally just enjoy ourselves. I’m not in this for the blood.”

     She started to walk past him but he grabbed her arm. “I paid you to do a job.”

     Without hesitation, she whipped her arm from his grasp and shoved him against the wall. The little cabin shook with the force and he felt a sharp pain in his chest. She had a hunting knife pressed over his heart.

     “I’m not in it for the blood, but I will not hesitate to spill yours if you ever fucking touch me again,” she hissed, leaning in to him. She was so close to his face that he could feel the blue tips of her braids brush his collar.

     “Find yourself a different lackey,” she continued, pulling back her knife. He felt a warm trickle of blood seep into his shirt. “You want to take down the Minutemen, be my guest. But don’t involve me and if I see you again, watch your back.”

     With that, she was gone, the door swinging closed with a bang behind her. Clayton let out a breath and swore silently. Without Jade’s group to do the heavy lifting, he was back to square one.

 

     When the caravan made it to Sanctuary Hills two days later, they found the bridge closed. Usually, caravans brought their Brahmin and wares directly into the town and traded at makeshift stalls there along the main road, but now they were relegated back to the old Red Rocket station nearby. Complaints spread throughout the caravan group but died quickly in favor of setting up shop in a choice spot before the settlers came and went. Clayton had his usual station alongside the caravan, a folding chair for working, a trunk of supplies, and a staked sign that simply read “Doctor”. 

     He didn’t have much business – apparently Sanctuary had a resident doctor – so he sat and seethed silently, staring in the direction of the settlement and the closed gates. They opened periodically to admit a settler or let someone out, but otherwise, it was a secured area. Barnes was not going to be happy if he heard about this; if he backed out like Jade had, Clayton lost both his funding and his only supporter. He had to figure out a way to get in there, a way to get her out. He didn’t have to take out the whole group, but if he could slit her throat, he’d be satisfied…and without her, the whole thing would collapse, anyway.

     It wasn’t until early afternoon, when he’d been sitting idle for well over an hour, when it finally came to him.

     A small group had gradually made their way over to him, a pair of adults and two young boys followed by an attentive dog. He recognized the older child immediately – it was the synth, S9-23, that Father had ordered made the year before she came looking for him. Father’s replacement, the child he’d wanted her to take care of. It had spent plenty of time in the Bioscience lab, asking questions and borrowing holotapes to read, always accompanied by Dr. Li or Father himself. He panicked for a moment, afraid he’d be recognized, but as the group approached, the boy met his gaze and then looked away as if they were strangers.

     “What have you got in the way of supplies?” the woman asked, tearing him out of his shocked reverie. He hadn’t expected her to actually take the child in, given the constant disgust she’d shown at the very idea of synths.

     “I’m sorry?”

     “Supplies,” she repeated, “We’re running a little low on some of the basics up at the clinic.”

     They negotiated and concluded quickly, trading several handfuls of caps for the last of his antibiotics, gauze, and various tools. 

     “Thank you,” she said, giving him a kind smile. “If you ever come across a working microscope, come right back. My partner would do just about anything for one.”

     He nodded absently, casting occasional glances over at the synth. It was standing just out of earshot, reading something from a massive book he carried to the younger child.

     The dog hovered nearby and caught his gaze for second. He looked away, feeling as if he’d been caught staring, and then mentally berated himself – it was a dog, not a bodyguard.

     “RJ, can you take these crates back to the clinic?”

     “You’re getting as bad as Nora. ‘Here, Mac, carry these twelve hubcaps across the Commonwealth, they might be made of aluminum…’”

     “Whiny,” the woman accused, though she was smiling. “I’m on light duty the rest of the year. Boys, come here and help, please.”

     The child synth closed the book and rejoined the group obediently. “Mister MacCready, can you show us your maps again?”

     “Maybe when we get this stuff back,” the man replied, hoisting the heaviest crate onto his shoulder with a short groan.

     Clayton’s eyes snapped up from pretending to inspect his sign. “You’re MacCready.”

     The man turned back to him, brow furrowed, and nodded. “That’s me,” he said, “Do we know each other?”

     Clayton fumbled for a response and shook his head. “No, no,” he replied, probably too quickly. “I, uh…I’ve heard you’re a good shot. From the other caravan guards.”

     MacCready gave him a half-smile. “Thanks, I guess,” he said, and turned back towards Sanctuary, following the woman and two boys. Clayton breathed a sigh of relief as they disappeared into the crowds. 

     He’d heard the name in many of the same circles as he’d heard about her. They were close friends, the General and her mercenary, the ones that had taken out Barnes’s unit and left him half-blind and unemployable.

     He couldn’t get her to come to him directly. He couldn’t get to her. But he could sure as hell grab some bait and wait for her to sniff it out.

 

     “You’re quiet tonight.”

     MacCready glanced over at Haylen and shrugged. “I’m not used to Sanctuary being so…closed off.”

     She nodded. “Preston says it’s only temporary. Until they figure out whatever’s going on with the raiders.”

     “I get it,” he replied, pulling closer to her under the blanket. “I grew up in Little Lamplight, after all. Kicked more people out than we ever let in.”

     Silence fell between them, the unspoken implications obvious. Both were more familiar with walls and guards and suspicion that they were with Nora’s open-door policies. Haylen shifted onto her back and yawned, grateful that she’d been spared any other symptoms for the time being. MacCready moved one calloused hand from her chest to the swell of flesh between her hipbones.

     “You’re okay with this?”

     “I am as long as you are.”

     He smiled and rested his forehead against hers. “I am. Did I give you the wrong impression last night?”

     “No,” she replied, placing her hand over his. “I was afraid you weren’t ready for it. For me. Us.”

     “I hadn’t thought about it,” he answered, “To be perfectly honest. You’d think, given Duncan and my penchant for doctors, I’d be more aware of things, but…well. It’s a surprise. A good one.”

     Haylen smiled to herself and squeezed his hand. “I like having you home.”


	17. False Monuments

     “You wouldn’t happen to have a copy of _Treasure Island_ , would you?”

     Fawkes looked up from his reading and frowned at the woman standing in front of him. “I’m not sure I recognize that title.”

     Her shoulders slumped. “Damn,” she replied, “My son asked me to find him one if I could.  You look like you’ve got quite the collection.”

     “Mostly what I could find in the immediate area,” Fawkes said, “Haven’t been out in a while.  Are you with James and Charon?”

     “They’re my guides,” the woman answered, “My partner and I are from the Commonwealth; we came down looking for someone.  Name’s Nora.”

     She stuck out her hand with a smile.  Fawkes took it awkwardly, closing his fingers around her entire forearm and shaking it as gently as possible.

     “Fawkes.”

     “Good to meet you,” she said, “It’s nice to see another book lover like myself.”

     “Reading made me what I am,” Fawkes replied, “And it keeps me company when I’m stuck inside the museum.”

     Nora glanced towards the entrance to the museum and frowned. “Some of the ghouls inside said there’s a back entrance, through old maintenance tunnels.  Takes you back to the street level well away from the Brotherhood post.”

     Fawkes nodded sadly. “Yes, I’ve seen them,” he said, “But sadly, they were built to human size standards.  I just don’t fit.”

     Nora’s frown deepened. “I really would like to know what they plan to accomplish by putting a ghoul colony under a damn _siege_.”

     “Confirmation that they are, in fact, the superior race,” Fawkes replied dryly, “If I weren’t getting as old as I am, I’d like to show them otherwise.”

     Nora laughed and nodded in agreement. “You and me both,” she said, “I should go see if James has any news for me.  Again, it was good to meet you, Fawkes.”

     He nodded. “Will you be returning to Underworld after you find whoever you’re looking for?”

     She shrugged. “Possibly,” she said, “Why?”

     Fawkes glanced around at his piles of books. “This is a ten-year collection,” he said, “But I’m starting to run out of things I haven’t read more than twice.  If you can find and bring me anything new, you can take your pick of anything your son might enjoy.”

     Nora’s smile widened. “I’ll definitely be back, then.”

 

     “So this is Underworld.”

     James pointed to the tiny icon on his Pip-Boy screen, a blip amongst dozens of others. Nora nodded.

     “We’re just east of the Potomac,” he said, “There’s the Anchorage Memorial, and then straight across is the Citadel.”

     “Where’s Bigtown?”

     “North of there, along the river,” James replied, zooming the map out and pointing. “About two days’ walk from the Citadel.”

     Nora nodded again.  From what she and James had been able to gather, her grandfather had left for the little farm community shortly after New Year’s, in the company of a few other Underworld residents, hoping to establish a neighboring settlement.

     “I called in a few of my contacts and favors,” James continued, nodding at the array of radio equipment behind them. “Maxson is expecting us tomorrow at noon.  After we knock him around a bit, we can head up to Megaton, crash at my place for the night, and then go to Bigtown.”

     “You don’t have to take us any farther than the Citadel.”

     “Well, to be honest, you drastically overpaid me for what I’ve done so far,” James said, “Besides, I’ve got friends in Bigtown and I haven’t been up there in ages.”

     “Alright, then,” she replied, then glanced back at the radio. “What’s the range on that thing?”

     “About four hundred miles, give or take,” James replied, “Ghouls here don’t have much use for it, though, so it’s a little rusty.”

     “I have a frequency for Sanctuary Hills,” Nora said, “Could you see if it’s possible to get in touch?”

     “I’ll take a stab at it.”

     Nora smiled gratefully and handed over her Pip-Boy.  James parked himself in front of the radio and began fiddling with the instruments, turning knobs and checking the microphone.

     “My dad was a doctor,” he said after a few moments of silence, “Tried to teach me, but not much stuck besides the absolute basics.  Always liked fixing electronics better – they don’t complain when you remove the wrong part.”

     “Definitely better patients,” Nora replied with a sardonic smile.  James gave her a crooked smile and lifted the radio headphones to one ear, head cocked as he twisted the tuning knob.

     “I think I’ve got something,” he said, “Sanctuary Hills?”

     Nora waited, shifting eagerly from one foot to the other.  James adjusted the tuner a few millimeters to the right and then handed her the microphone and headphones.

     “Sanctuary?  This is Nora.  Come in, guys.”

     Static crackled in the background and then she heard a tinny voice respond. “Hey, General!  Good to hear from you!”

     Nora gave James a grin and a thumbs up. “Is that you, Sturges?”

     “None other,” Sturges replied, his voice cracking in and out. “How’s it going?”

     “Pretty good,” Nora said, “We made it here safe and sound.  Going to do some searching up north.  I don’t know if I’ll be able to find another long-range radio, so I wanted to check in while I could.”

     “We’re doing good,” Sturges said to her unspoken question, “We had some Raiders visit a few days ago, but nobody got hurt.”

     Nora felt her pulse jump but forced away the rush of anxiety. “I’m glad you guys managed,” she answered steadily, “Is Preston around?”

     “Somewhere,” Sturges answered, the words fading in and out between static. “Shaun’s right here, though, want to say hi while I grab your second?”

     “Of course.”

     She heard a metallic shuffling and then a young voice shouted in her ear. “Hi, Mom!”

     “Hi, sweetheart,” Nora said, smiling as her eyes watered. “How’re you doing?”

     “Really good.  I got your letters.  Have you found Grandma and Grandpa yet?”

     “Not yet,” Nora answered after a short pause, “But soon, I think.”

     “That’s good,” Shaun said, “There’s a lot of cool stuff going on here.  The tatos are starting to grow and Mister MacCready’s back, and he was teaching me and Duncan how to read a map --”

     Nora nodded as he babbled over the static, forcing herself not to cry.  It was getting harder and harder to feel like she had a grip on herself, especially when something as simple as Shaun’s chatter made her chest hurt so much.

     “...and I found this really cool book about how people used to use the stars as maps.  I used some of the caps in your room to get it, is that okay?”

     Nora rubbed her eyes and smiled even though she knew he couldn’t see her. “Of course, sweetheart,” she said, “Get as many books as you want.”

     “I will,” Shaun promised earnestly, “I can’t wait to show you.”

     “I can’t wait to see.  How’s Anne?”

     “She’s good.  Codsworth said she’s getting a tooth, but I didn’t see one.”

     “They take time to appear,” Nora replied, turning and smiling as Hancock appeared at her side.

     “Is Hancock with you?”

     “Yeah, he just walked in.”

     “Can I talk to him?  Just for a minute.  Mr. Garvey is coming.”

     “Sure, sweetheart,” Nora said, “I love you.”

     “Love you, too, Mom.”

     She pulled off the headphones and handed them over to Hancock. “He wants to talk to you.”

     “Thought he might.”

     Nora arched an eyebrow quizzically but Hancock ignored her.

     “What’s up, kid?”

     Nora leaned against the desk, intensely curious.  Shaun and Hancock were friendly with each other and got along well, but weren’t the type to have their own private conversations.

     “Not yet,” Hancock said after a moment of silence, “Almost done, though.”

     There was another beat of silence, then the crackle of static and Shaun’s distant, muffled voice.

     “Yep, I know.  It’ll happen.”

     Hancock glanced at her and smirked. “She’s trying to find out what’s going on.  I know.  Alright, kid.  Hand over Garvey for your mom.”

     Nora took the headphones back from him with her eyes narrowed. “I’m going to figure out what you two are plotting,” she promised.  Hancock’s smirk widened, as if daring her.

     “General?”

     “I’m here,” Nora continued, shaking her head and turning back to the microphone. “How’s it going, Pres?”

     “Did Sturges tell you we got a visit from some raiders recently?”

     “Yeah.  Everyone’s okay?”

     “Perfect,” Preston replied, “So don’t come rushing back just yet.”

     “I won’t,” Nora answered, “I actually wanted to discuss something with you.”

     “Shoot.”

     “I managed to set up a diplomatic meeting with Elder Maxson,” Nora replied, “Tomorrow.  I need you to reassure me and remind me of anything that I need to mention to him.”

      There was silence on the other end.  After a moment, Preston replied, his voice cautious. “You sure you want to do this?  I kind of thought the Prydwen leaving was a boon for us.”

     “It was.  But there are still detachments all over the place.  I promise I’m not going to tell him to shove it.  It’s more of a goodwill mission.  Return those soldier’s holotags and grease some wheels, smooth his ruffled feathers if I can.”

     “Alright,” Preston agreed, though he still sounded reluctant. “Well, mention that settlement on the coast and the problem with them clearing out ferals.”

     “Anything else?”

     She could practically hear Preston shaking his head furiously. “We both know he’s not a flexible man,” he said, “Let’s stick with the basics, okay?  Deal with our more immediate problems.”

     “What more immediate problems?”

     There was another silence, then a buzz. “Raiders,” Preston replied, his voice broken by static. “Look, there’s a storm coming.  I’ll let you go before we get caught off.  Be your usual diplomatic self and we should be fine.”

     “Preston --”

     The radio buzzed and cracked.  She heard Preston’s reply but couldn’t make it out, then there was silence.  With a sigh and a twinge of worry, Nora set the headphones aside and flipped the switch.  She’d hoped talking to Preston and Shaun would abate some of her anxiety and homesickness, but it had done the exact opposite.

 

     The sun had set hours ago, but it was still hot.  George sat back against a crumbling wall, shifting uncomfortably in his metal armor.  Lyssa had insisted he wear it, but it did little more than drive him insane and restrict his movement.  He was pushing three hundred, anyway, what did it matter if he took a bullet?

     “This is suicide, you know.”

     Lyssa appeared next to him in the darkness, her voice low so no one else heard them.

     “It’s a monument,” George snapped, “No one’s going to care.”

     “It’s going to draw attention to us,” Lyssa replied, crossing her arms. “In the middle of Brotherhood territory, I might add.”

     “Well, unless you screwed up our escape route, I don’t think it’ll matter.”

     “I still don’t understand why you want to waste a perfectly good mini nuke on a pile of prewar rocks.”

     George shook his head and glanced over towards the Anchorage Memorial. “I explained it to you and I don’t care if you didn’t listen.  We’re doing this one thing and then we’ll be back on track.”

     Lyssa rolled her eyes. “You’ve lost your damn mind.”

     “That I have,” George agreed, still staring down at the memorial statue.  They hadn’t left him alone since that first day he’d seen them, hovering at the edges of his peripheral vision and whispering in his ear, keeping him company night and day.  As he stared down at the old memorial, he could feel Nora at his side, her breath like a hot wind on his cheek.

     “They ruined Nate.  Why are you waiting?”

     He blinked for a moment, his pulse jumping.  The one thing he could say about the Psycho was that _all_ his memories were coming back, not just the tattered shades of his three girls.  As he watched the memorial, he could remember the hot sunshine, the bugler, the American flags flapping cheerfully in the breeze.  Nora standing beside her husband, glancing at him occasionally as they sat through speeches and dedications, then looking over to her mother-in-law, who stood apart from the ceremony with Shaun bouncing in her arms.  She’d broken down to him the night before, in the restaurant of their hotel, and confessed Nate’s addiction, his paranoia and nightmares. 

     George didn’t say it then, but he’d seen it before.  One soldier after another, stolen from their families and returned broken and displaced.  Nate had left a lot more than his leg in Anchorage and Nora knew it – George’s heart had broken for her while she faked a smile through the dedication.

     It didn’t mean much, but it was something.  Something he could do for his girl – make sure false monuments crumbled away as surely as the rest of the world had.


	18. Words

     “Alright, there, Sunshine?”

     Nora looked up from the weathered bronze of the Anchorage Memorial and nodded. “Yeah,” she replied, “I didn’t expect to find a name I recognized.”

     She brushed at the worn-down names engraved into the monument, loosening bits of moss and caked-on dirt.  _Private Andrew Whittaker._

     “Who was he?”

     “Some kid from Texas,” Nora said with a sigh, “Nineteen or twenty, volunteered in ’75.  When they liberated Anchorage, he took a bullet in his side before the retreat was called.  Nate was the field medic for his unit.  He fell behind and Nate went back for him when they sent in Liberty Prime.  Whittaker got airlifted out and Nate ended up on the business end of Prime’s nukes.  He lost his leg and Whittaker bled out before they got him to the hospital.”

     “Sounds like a shit day all around.”

     “You could say that.”

     She sat back on her heels and glanced up at the monument, shaking her head. “This thing hadn’t been up for more than three or four months when the bombs hit.  Makes me wonder why they even bothered.”

     Hancock held out a hand and Nora took it, hoisting herself up off the ground.  She looked back up at the figures above, featureless soldiers posing with their weapons, then shook her head and stepped back, brushing dirt off her knees.  Hancock waited for her to say something else, but she remained silent.

     Closer to the river, James was perched on the stone wall, taking potshots at the mirelurks on the opposite bank while Charon waited nearby, his back to the memorial.  He hadn’t said much at all since the night he’d accidentally revealed his relationship to Roger Maxson, but he seemed to be in an especially shitty mood today, glaring at everyone and everything and occasionally muttering to himself under his breath.

     “Your face is going to get stuck that way,” James informed him, swinging his legs over the wall and hopping down.  Charon responded with an even darker scowl.

     “Suit yourself,” James said, shrugging. “Ready to move?”

     “Let’s go,” Nora replied with a nod, “Get this thing over with.”

     James lead them across the river at a low point, moving from one muddy dune to the next until they were on the other side.  As Nora was scraping mud from her boots, a sharp whistle pierced the air behind her.

     “Get down!” Charon yelled.  Nora felt him shove her into James and they both fell face-first towards the concrete.  The ground shook as a concussive blast rolled over them and the Geiger counter on her Pip-Boy began clicking wildly.  Debris rained down around them, flaming bits of bronze turned into molten projectiles.

     Nora coughed and lifted her head, glancing back towards the explosion.  What she guessed was a mini nuke had hit the memorial, leaving behind little more than the stone foundation, charred and broken.  Her ears rang and her vision blurred for a moment.

     She looked over at Hancock, who was staring across the river.  From one of the crumbling buildings south of the memorial, a group of raiders, whooping and yelling, poured out.  At the same time, three Brotherhood Knights came charging from behind her, miniguns spraying bullets at the Raiders.  The two groups engaged each other briefly, guns warring and spitting across the square, and then the Raiders took off, disappearing into one of the nearby metro stations.

     “Well, fuck me,” she heard James say as the ringing in her ears began to subside some, “Talk about dodging a bullet.”

     Nora pushed herself into a sitting position, knees and elbows stinging.  Her meeting with the pavement had ripped twin holes in the knees of her jeans and shredded the flesh along her forearms.  She swore silently and brushed gravel from the burning scrapes, blood dotting her fingers.

     “Need a Stimpak?”

     Nora shook her head as Hancock helped her stand again. “It’s not that bad.  What about you?”

     “I’m tougher than you smoothskins,” he replied with a dark smile as James hissed and dug a large, jagged pebble out of the heel of his palm.

     “And I’m a fucking wimp, so hand one over, Charon,” he said, shaking his hand and scowling. “Do you think those idiots were high or just stupid?”

     “I saw several ghouls in the group,” Charon replied, “I think they were intentionally antagonizing the Brotherhood detachments in this area.”

     “Could be the reason Underworld is having such a problem with the Brotherhood,” Hancock agreed, “Heard a few rumors myself…”

     “Lovely,” Nora muttered, snatching her Minuteman hat off the ground and jamming it back over a disheveled braid. “Raiders have been the bane of my existence since I walked out of the Vault.  I’m going to go find somewhere to change because I’m not meeting Maxson looking like a kid that just fell off her bike.” 

 

     Twenty minutes later, arms and knees freshly bandaged as she sweated in her General’s uniform, Nora found herself coming face to face with Elder Maxson in the Citadel courtyard. 

     “General Wilson.”

     He extended a hand.  Nora took it with a polite smile.  They’d been forced to leave Charon and Hancock outside the Citadel along with everything but sidearms, which made her feel strangely light and barren.

     “Knight Hawkins.  It’s been a long time.”

     James glared. “Don’t you ‘Knight Hawkins’ me, you little turd,” he snapped, straightening so they could take in his full height.  He was noticeably taller than Maxson, but the Elder seemed unfazed.

     “James, it’d be nice if you saved the male posturing for later,” Nora interjected, though she was forcing back a laugh.  He threw her a dirty look but didn’t respond.

     “Let’s speak in private,” Maxson replied, turning and leading them across the rest of the courtyard.

     “I thought you were okay with roughing him up a little?” James muttered in her ear.

     “I never agreed to that,” Nora muttered back, “This isn’t a schoolyard, for fuck’s sake.  _Diplomacy._ ”

     “How did you get to be a general with that kind of attitude?”

     “I was Jedi mind-tricked into the job.”

     “What?”

     Maxson coughed and James straightened but resumed his glaring.

     “Please have a seat.”  Maxson waved vaguely at two plush red chairs before seating himself opposite them behind a massive wooden desk.  Nora sat, her 10mm pressing into her hip, a familiar and reassuring weight.

     “I’m assuming this isn’t a social call, General.”

     Nora shook her head. “First things first,” she said, digging inside her coat pocket. “Several months ago, shortly after I cut ties with the Institute, they attacked the Castle.  We were – well, to be frank, we were pretty fucked.  We were heavily outnumbered and our defenses just weren’t strong enough.”

     She pulled the holotags from her pocket and laid them on the desk. “A Brotherhood vertibird helped drive them off and gave us a chance to regroup.  They didn’t make it, but because of the assistance, our losses were minimized.  I wanted to return their holotags and say thank you.”

     Maxson picked up one of the tags and peered at the name. “Paladin Eames,” he said, “He was part of a Glowing Sea detachment, never made it back to the Prydwen.  We assumed they had been killed or taken.”

     He looked up at Nora with startlingly soft blue eyes. “Paladin Eames and Knight Morrison had families here in the Capital,” he said, “I appreciate you returning these so we can give them some peace.”

     “I was a military wife,” Nora replied, “I understand how it is.  Every soldier should be accounted for, dead or alive.”

     “Thank you.”

     “Alright, you’ve kissed each other’s asses enough,” James interrupted with an irritated sigh, “Time to ‘fess up Arthur.  What the fuck’s up with the sniper near Underworld?  Why isn’t the Brotherhood delivering water anymore?  What the hell do you --”

     “James,” Nora began, struggling not to roll her eyes.  Maxson furrowed his brow and looked over at him, his posture stiffening.

     “I was not aware that we were engaged in any conflict with Underworld.”

     James gave a sardonic laugh. “Better inform your guys over there, then,” he replied, “They damn near killed her partner and my bodyguard and we didn’t so much as spit in their direction.  Does your left hand know what the right is doing?”

     Nora winced internally as Maxson’s expression tightened.  While James had made things plain, he’d also just insulted a very proud and rigid man during what was supposed to be a diplomatic meeting.

     “Ignoring your insubordinancy, Knight --”

     “Oh, shut the fuck up, Arthur,” James replied, standing and striding to a liquor cabinet on the far wall. “I never took orders from you and I’m not about to start now.  Where’s your good shit?”

     He rummaged through the cabinet, bottles clinking as he pushed them aside.  Nora took a deep breath and swallowed hard.

     “Have there been problems with a gang of raiders in the area?” Nora asked, “Mostly ghouls?”

     Maxson turned back to her, scowling, but nodded curtly. “They don’t attack us directly,” he replied, “They attack supply lines and let Ferals loose from the metro tunnels.  I believe they have also kidnapped and killed some of our field units.  In addition to destroying prewar monuments and placing civilian lives at stake.”

     Nora nodded, the mini nuke blast still fresh in her mind. “We’ve dealt with similar in the Commonwealth,” she said, “A more effective strategy of dealing with them might be to find their main camp --”

     “Which isn’t Underworld,” James added, popping the cork off a half-full bottle of bourbon and slinging himself back into his chair. “Most of the ghouls there are prewar, old and just trying to get by.”

     “We both know that once ghoulification occurs, age matters little,” Maxson argued, glaring at him.

     “Well, either way it’s not the people in Underworld,” James replied, “You’ve got my word as a Knight.  Or whatever.”

     “Your soldiers would save a lot of ammunition and effort if they focused their attention elsewhere,” Nora replied, “And the caravans would be happier if they could use that route without worrying about getting caught in the crossfire.”

     Maxson was silent for a tense minute.  Nora could see his gears turning; knew that trade routes were absolutely essential to the Brotherhood’s continued operation and that this might be the tipping point.

     “I’ll make sure that the field unit in that area is aware of the problem.”

     Nora let out a silent sigh of relief as James nodded and took a long pull off the bourbon he had claimed.  Maxson gave him one last dirty look and then turned to Nora.

     “I assume there was something else you wanted to speak with me about.”

     “Your detachments in the Commonwealth,” Nora replied, “I have no problem with them or the work that they’ve been doing.  It’s been helpful to the Minutemen, in fact.  However, there has been collateral damage.”

     “Collateral damage?”

     “A few weeks ago, a unit cleared out a pack of ferals from some ruins near the coast,” she continued, “In doing so, they damaged a settlement’s crops and outbuildings, but never bothered to fix the damage or offer restitution.”

     Maxson stared at her.  Nora sighed.  The diplomatic double-speak was getting her nowhere at this point.

     “Look, if you’re going to play in my sandbox, don’t poop in it,” she said, “Brotherhood soldiers are all adults, I assume, and capable of cleaning up after themselves.  I’m happy to share the playground so long as the other kids aren’t assholes.”

     James choked on his drink as Maxson blinked at her in surprise.

     “I wasn’t aware that there was a problem.”

     _Seems you aren’t aware of a lot of things._   Nora gave him a polite smile. “It’s minor,” she assured him, “But if it becomes larger, I’ll be forced to take action against the units responsible and I really don’t want to waste my time on that.  The peaceful, productive continuance of farms and civilian settlements is the primary responsibility of the Minutemen, after all.”

     “Holy shit,” James muttered, coughing and laughing at the same time, his face red with the effort. “You just got schooled by a four-foot tall Vaultie dressed up like Benjamin Franklin.”

     Maxson exhaled heavily from his nose, the muscles in his jaw twitching. “I will pass on the message,” he told Nora, “Would you be so kind as to take this worthless Knight with you when you leave?”

     Nora shook her head. “He’s not Minuteman material,” she replied, “Besides, I already have two of your rejects amongst my ranks.  It might start to look bad if more defected.”

     She saw Maxson stiffen.  James didn’t seem able to decide if he wanted to glare at her or ask what the hell she was talking about.

     “You did yourself a huge disservice in letting them go.”

     Maxson cleared his throat and glanced down at his hands. “Are they – are they doing well?”

     “At this point, I wouldn’t let them go even if the Brotherhood would take them back,” she answered, “They’re invaluable to the Minutemen.  I consider them both friends.”

     Maxson straightened and looked back up at her. “Scribe Haylen gave an oath,” he said, “And she betrayed it.  What good is our word if we must go back on it?”

     “Danse never betrayed his oath or your trust,” Nora said, “Sarah only did so to save his life.  I can respect principle, Maxson.  I can respect promises and oaths and ideals.  But I don’t make my words so big that I’d choke if I ever had to eat them.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly advice -- don't ever Google image search "road rash injury" like I did. *gags*


	19. Golden Boy

     As they left the Citadel, Nora turned and punched James, knuckles landing hard above his elbow.

     “I’m five-two, thank you very much.”

     “Ow, shit,” James whined, rubbing his arm. “It was a joke.  Do you punch everyone who makes jokes at your expense?”

     “Do you even know who Benjamin Franklin was?”

     “Hey, gimme _some_ credit,” James replied, “I know how to read.  He invented electricity.”

     Nora rolled her eyes. “You’re coming back to the Commonwealth with me, and you’re going to sit down with my son and get a proper education,” she said, “Invented electricity…”

     “Yes, ma’am,” James replied with a mock salute, “Anything you say, General.”

     Nora sighed and kept walking as he smirked at her.  Once outside the gates and earshot of the Knights guarding the entrance, he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

     “So who defected and why?”

     She took a deep breath. “Paladin Danse and Scribe Haylen,” she said, “It’s a long story, but essentially…they found out Paladin Danse was a synth.  He didn’t know he was and panicked, went AWOL.  Scribe Haylen came to me at the Castle and asked me to help.  Maxson wanted Danse executed but I convinced him to walk away.”

     “Fuck,” James replied, eyes wide. “One of their _paladins_ was a synth?”

     “I’m almost certain he was an Institute escapee who had his memory wiped,” Nora said, “Which is why I told HQ I won’t support that anymore or tell any synths I help that it’s even an option.”

     “How did they find out?  The Brotherhood, I mean.  Is there some new procedure to differentiate that I haven’t heard of?”

     “They got a picture and DNA results from the Institute.”

     “How’d they manage that?  I thought you Minutemen took down the Institute.”

     “We did,” Nora replied, back tensing. “I told you, it was a long story.”

     “We’ve got a long walk up to Megaton,” James said, eyeing her curiously. “I’ve heard rumors and stuff, but honestly, a first-person account --”

     Nora stopped, turning to him with a stony expression. “It’s not something I want to regale people with, okay?” she snapped, “If you want to get that kind of information, you can go ask Hancock or Preston or one of the other two dozen people that helped me.  But I’m still smarting a little bit from destroying an entire civilization in one button push, so no campfire stories at the moment.”

     With that, she looked away and continued walking, striding back towards Hancock and Charon silently.  James hesitated for a moment and then jogged to catch up to her.

     “I know I offend people a lot with my mouth, but I wasn’t trying to just now,” he said to Nora, “I didn’t realize it was personal for you.”

     “Who said it was personal?”

     “Your reaction kind of did,” James said, “And, as I said, there are a LOT of rumors…you knew the Director, didn’t you?”

     “Yes, I did,” Nora answered, “And if my previous statement wasn’t clear enough, I don’t want to fucking talk about it.”

     “Okay, point taken,” James replied, lifting his hands in surrender. “Sorry I asked.”

     Nora shook her head, still tight-lipped, and continued walking.  James followed, curiosity still piqued as they started the trip up to Megaton.

 

     “ _What’s up, Wastelanders?  This is Three Dog, and you’re listening to Galaxy News Radio --_ ”

     “Ugh, shut it off,” Lyssa yelled over the commotion, throwing an empty can in the direction of the radio.  It landed with a tinny clank on the broken concrete as the others ignored her.  George sat back in his chair, staring aimlessly at his plate as Three Dog howled into the darkness of the metro tunnel.

     “… _Got some great news for you today.  Our very own intrepid explorer and peacekeeper of the wastes, the Lone Wanderer, has returned to D.C.  Seems he’s not wasting any time, either, helping us set things back to rights.  I’ve got it on good authority that he helped broker a bit of peace between the Brotherhood of Steel and the ghouls in Underworld, under the tutelage of a visitor from the north --”_

George scoffed and shook his head as a round of heckling went up at the mention of the Brotherhood.

     “That’ll be the day.”

     “... _this news coming just after reports of a little dust up between those ghoul raiders and the Brotherhood near the Anchorage Memorial earlier today.  No casualties, but that ol’ memorial is no more, I’m afraid.  If you nut jobs are out there listenin’, watch where you’re slinging those mini nukes, will ya’?  That’s what got us the beautiful city vista I’m enjoying now…”  
_

     “Turn it off,” George said, raising his voice over the booing. “Seriously, now.”

     Someone reached over and flipped the switch, plunging them into a momentary silence they filled quickly with drunken chatter.  George pushed the last of his food away and leaned down to unbuckle his armor.  He dropped it there next to his chair and stood, fingers brushing over the syringe in his pocket before he caught Lyssa eyeing him.

     “Where are you going?”

     “To sleep.”

     He could feel her eyes on him but ignored her as he walked away, slamming the door to an old maintenance room.  It was dark and empty save for a low-burning lamp and a dirty mattress in the corner, which he fell onto with a tired sigh.  Two hundred and eighty-nine fucking years, and he was sleeping like a hobo in a radioactive metro tunnel.  Tired.  Alone.  Riddled with scars and pain and watched like an asylum patient that might attempt something at any minute.

     He grabbed the syringe and slipped it into the vein at his elbow, the one that gleamed blue under paper-thin skin.  He felt the prick and pressed the plunger down.  Almost immediately, the pain disappeared and he felt his brain wake up, felt the swirl of chemical energy make his heart beat a little faster.  He waited, sounds from the group outside drifting in, eyes closed as colors danced on the back of his eyelids. 

     The low, slow chords came first, gentle and soothing.  Renee’s favorite, the one they’d danced to so often.  He opened his eyes and sunk back against the cold concrete wall as the tune echoed through the emptiness.

_I don’t want to set the world on fire_

_I just want to start_

_A flame in your heart…_

     He saw her, twirling slowly over the polished linoleum in her white dress, red hair curled and hanging to her elbows.  Dancing with him at every anniversary, usually just around the living room but smiling as warmly as ever.  Jane and Nora had both grown up listening to the soothing lyrics pouring easily out of their record player, had danced on his toes and sung along before they even understood the meaning. 

_I’ve lost all ambition for worldly acclaim_

_I just want to be the one you love…_

     Two hundred and fifty-three years together, before the Brotherhood had put her down like a rabid dog.  Two hundred and fifty-three years of anything and everything the universe could possibly throw at them, including nuclear devastation, only for her to be torn from him by a well-aimed bullet and a bigoted cheer.  He shouldn’t have left her there in the metro tunnels, but he didn’t know what else to do with her.  He couldn’t pull the trigger himself and couldn’t keep her in Underworld and risk an encounter with a human, so he’d figured out the next best thing.  It worked…until the Brotherhood destroyed it and took away the last bit of himself he still had.

     Lyssa was the only one who really knew.  The only person who hadn’t argued against keeping Renee in the tunnel with the others, the only one who had seen the Brotherhood massacre those ghouls and then laugh about it.

     She knew he had nothing else.

     He watched Renee spin, her curls fanning out behind her as the deep red faded to shiny copper and then to white.  She’d hated losing it more than anything else, even as her nose fell off and her eyes turned black.  Eighty-eight years old, wrinkled and bony, a great-grandmother, and she was still vain about her hair.

     The song faded in an out like bad radio transmission.  Renee continued spinning, her hair red again.

     “ _…Nice work, kid, nice work.  Keep fightin’ the good fight and don’t forget your old friend in the D.C. hellhole.  This is Three-Dog, signing off --”_

George opened his eyes and scowled into the darkness as the DJ howled obnoxiously.  How long had it been since he’d bothered with a broadcast about the pseudo-hero of the Wastes?  Not long enough, he decided, shifting on the stained mattress with a pained sigh.  Jane had seated herself on an old terminal bank nearby, head cocked at him.  Nora sat next to her, long legs swinging idly.

     “This isn’t healthy, you know.”

     “And they say teenagers make bad decisions,” Nora stage-whispered to her mother.  Jane put an arm around her daughter and pulled her close, shaking her head in George’s direction.  The DJ howled again and George winced as the noise made his head ache.

     “Seems he’s their golden boy again,” Renee said, “Wonder if he’s still got poor Charon’s contract or if he sold it off.”

     “How do you have sympathy for someone who never said two words to you?”

     “Because she’s not a black-hearted, cynical asshole,” Nora answered, smirking at him.

     “Honoria,” Jane chastised sharply, frowning at the girl. “Language, please.”

     “No, she’s right,” Renee replied, “Look at you, George.  This is pathetic.”

     “You’re wallowing.”

     “Time to pick a new target and get moving.  Not going to be sane for much longer…”

     George closed his eyes. “What do you suggest?”

     “Get the golden boy.”

     “Brotherhood smoothskin with a ghoul slave.”

     “Not a hard choice.”

     How long had it been since he’d stumbled into Underworld, a gangly, frightened teenager with a mouth bigger than his balls?

     “Might really get the Brotherhood’s attention then.”

     George blinked and let his hands fall from his lap.  The music was gone and the lamp had burned out, leaving him sitting on the cold, hard floor in total blackness.  He strained his hearing for a moment, but the only sounds that came were the steady dripping of a pipe nearby.  He stood, joints creaking, and wrenched open the door.  He must have been out of it for a while; everyone else had fallen asleep, rolled into dirty sleeping bags amidst empty bottles and squashed food boxes.  George kicked at the nearest lump of ghoul and got a pained groan in return.

     “Wake up, we’re leaving,” he ordered.

     “The fuck you talking about, old man?”

     “You’ve gotten enough beauty sleep,” George replied, “Come on.  Get moving.  Everybody up!”

     The ghoul grumbled under his breath but did as he was told, kicking aside his bedding and nudging the others next to him awake.

     “Where’s Lyssa?” George demanded, glancing around the darkness.

     “ _Discussing_ things with Rex,” someone replied, eliciting a round of giggling and snickers.

     “Shut up, you damned kindergarteners,” George snapped, shaking his head. “Lyssa!”

     She stumbled out of a nearby train car, yanking her shirt down over her hips and scowling at him.  Rex came behind, his belt still loose.  Another round of giggling erupted over a piercing catcall.

     “What the hell is going on?”

     “We’re leaving,” George repeated, “Everbody get your shit together and do it fast.”

     He strode away, kicking through the garbage around the gated entrance.  It was still dark out, the station illuminated only by the half-moon outside.

     “What’s got you in a tizzy?”

     Lyssa sidled up behind him, arms crossed and brow knitted together.  George glanced over at her and then away.

     “Rex is an idiot, you know.”

     “So?”

     George could see her out of the corner of his eye.  She’d only been 18 when she turned and still acted the part most days, reminding him of all the years he’d spent chasing first after Jane and then Nora, stubborn redheads too pretty for their own good.

     “We’re leaving.”

     “In the middle of the night?”

     “Yes.”

     “Where to?” 

     George was silent for a moment.  He knew what the rest were saying, as surely as if he could hear them whispering – _Deimos has lost it, he’s jumped ship, this is crazy_ and _stupid._

     And yet they followed him anyway.

     “Megaton,” he said finally, “We’re going to get the golden boy.”


	20. Change

     Jade and her group were still holed up in the same place, a set of bombed-out old apartments not far from Diamond City.  Clayton found them fairly easily, striding up purposefully with his pipe pistol holstered.

     “Hey, asshole,” a voice called down as he approached the makeshift bridge over the road, “You’ve got about thirty seconds to turn around and disappear before someone blows your fucking head off.”

     He lifted his hands in surrender and glanced up at the speaker, a scrawny woman with a shaved head.  She had an assault rifle pointed down at him.

     “I want to talk to Jade.”

     “I said to get fucking moving,” the woman replied, “This isn’t negotiable.”

     “I’ve got a job for her.”

     The woman didn’t immediately open fire, so Clayton figured he’d gotten her attention.   After a tense moment, she glanced to her left and nodded.

     “Go get the boss.”

     “Jade ain’t gonna be happy to be disturbed…”

     “Just go get her!”

     The man huffed but did as ordered, disappearing into the building as he muttered angrily to himself.  Clayton let his hands drop but stayed put.  After a few minutes of tense silence, the gate under the bridge swung open.

     “I thought I said I didn’t want to see your ugly face again.”

     Clayton swallowed hard as Jade approached, her shotgun resting across one shoulder.

     “I’ve got a job for you.  Really simple.  You don’t have to attack any settlements.”

     “Out with it.”

     “A kidnapping,” Clayton said, “I need you to grab someone and take him to my camp.  Nothing else.”

     Jade shifted her weight, one hand on her hip, and raised an eyebrow. “Kidnappings aren’t worth my time.  No one pays ransoms anymore.”

     “I’ll make it worth your time,” Clayton replied, “A thousand caps and no liability.  Soon as you’ve handed him off to me, your part is done.”

     “Don’t make me laugh,” Jade said, “There’s no such thing as zero liability.”

     “Fine, limited liability,” Clayton answered, “Do it quick and quiet and they won’t even know who it was.”

     “Who’s the target?”

     “I’m not saying out here.  We can work out the details in private.”

     “Sweeten the pot and we’ll talk.”

     Clayton ground his teeth in frustration.  Greedy bastards, always wanting more and more.

     “What do you want?”

     “Three thousand.”

     “No way.  Fifteen hundred.”

     “Not worth my time, Clayton.”

     He took a calming breath and chose his words carefully. “I want him brought to Fort Hagen,” he said, “The place is a gold mine of weapons and ammo.  Fifteen hundred and whatever you can haul away.”

     Silence stretched between them as Jade narrowed her eyes. 

     “Five hundred now,” Jade said at last, “Another fifteen when we deliver _and_ all this loot you’ve promised.”

     Clayton nodded. “It’s a deal.”

     Jade gave him a sinister smile. “Step into my office, then, and we’ll hammer out the details.”

     As Clayton and the Raiders sequestered themselves inside the fenced camp, a near-invisible shimmer detached itself from the wall of an alley and disappeared into the darkness.

 

     Hancock watched Nora work, nimble fingers moving her threaded needle in and out of the fabric on her lap.  She was sewing leather patches into her torn jeans with tiny, careful stitches.

     “Something wrong?”

     She didn’t look up from her work.  Hancock shifted in his seat and shrugged.

     “Why d’you ask?”

     “You took out that Jet but haven’t touched it yet,” she replied, glancing over at him and then back down at her sewing. “You only do that when you’re thinking about something.”

     Hancock wondered absently if it was really healthy for two people to know each other as well as they did, then shifted again, trying to let go of some of his apprehension.

     “Thinkin’ about some of the rumors I heard while we were in Underworld.”

     “What rumors?”

     Hancock took a deep breath. “One of the ghouls that your grandfather left with,” he began, “S’posed to be a bit of a troublemaker.”

     “And?”

     She was being purposefully dense now, ignoring the obvious and forcing him to say it out loud.

     “And in the last few weeks, there’s been an all-ghoul raider gang runnin’ around the wastes and terrorizing the Brotherhood.”

     “Well, not that I advocate what that group is doing, but it’s highly likely the Brotherhood has pissed off a large number of ghoul groups in the area.  That gang could be anyone.”

     “Love, there ain’t any other ghoul groups down here besides Underworld.”

     “I didn’t realize you knew the demographics of the wasteland population so well.”

     Hancock sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face in irritation. “Nora, this isn’t the Commonwealth,” he said, “The Brotherhood’s been runnin’ the show here for close to forty years.  The anti-ghoul sentiment is pretty strong.”

     “So, what?” Nora asked, dropping her work and turning on him with a hard frown. “You think my grandfather went and joined a raider gang hell-bent on getting revenge on the Brotherhood?  Why would they even want revenge?  From what I was told, the sniper-at-the-door thing was the first time anyone has given Underworld trouble.  What reason would they have to suddenly want blood?”

     She raised her eyebrows at him and Hancock tried not to sigh again in frustration.  As compassionate and wise as she could be, Nora was still a product of her time, a woman who had grown up with the façade of law and order, who had never been forced to sit back and watch injustice unfold right in front of her and be unable to do a thing to stop it.  She’d emerged from the Vault with a depth of insight that astonished him sometimes, but she didn’t have true understanding of what something like ghoulification did to a person.  She’d never seen a prewar ghoul lose his last link to his human past and then stop caring or even thinking logically.  He had, once in his early days as Goodneighbor’s mayor, and the end result hadn’t been pretty.

     “Unless you’ve got something for me besides bar rumors, I’m going to assume that he ended up in a settlement near Bigtown, like Dr. Barrows said,” Nora replied when he didn’t answer her right away.  She shoved her sewing to the side and stood, turning for the door.

     “Nora, I wasn’t tryin’ to --”

     “Then what were you trying to do, huh?” she demanded, rounding on him. “My grandfather would not kidnap and torture members of the Brotherhood.  Do you know what he did before the war?”

     “Sunshine…”

     “He was a civil rights lawyer,” she continued, jaw set hard. “He helped get Chinese prisoners of war released.  He lobbied against putting people in internment camps, even after he spent time as a hostage in a camp uprising.  He lobbied against the death penalty for the worst kinds of people.  He was good to a fault.”

     Hancock wasn’t sure how to respond.  Nora had always maintained that the person she was as a wastelander and a militia general was the same as she had been as a prewar lawyer, just in different packaging with different tools, so it made sense she’d think the same about someone else.  Especially when that someone had obviously been a hero to her.

     “People change, Sunshine,” Hancock said, “You know that.”

     She scoffed and shook her head. “Keep your fucking rumors to yourself, John.”

     She turned away again and stormed out of the room, leaving Hancock sitting alone and wishing he had kept his mouth shut this time.

 

     Charon tensed when the door slammed shut, turning with his finger hovering over the trigger of his shotgun.  Nora stood there in the darkness, scowling to herself and obviously quite upset about something.  When she saw him standing there, her features softened and her shoulders sagged.

     “Sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

     “Is everything alright?”

     “Couldn’t sleep,” she replied with a dismissive wave, “Just needed some fresh air to clear my head.”

     Charon knew she was lying in the way that he always knew when people were lying, but he didn’t say anything and nodded instead.  Nora gave him a weak smile and joined him at the railing, leaning her hip against it and staring up into the night sky.  Charon followed her gaze up to the Big Dipper and then across the dark expanse to the North Star, shimmery and unchanging.

     “My son is fascinated by astronomy,” Nora said after a moment, “To me it just looks like a big mess of glitter.  Too far away to worry much about.”

     “They don’t change,” Charon said, “For two hundred and twelve years, I’ve always found Polaris in exactly the same spot every night.  It’s…reassuring.”

     Nora glanced over and smiled at him. “I was a city kid,” she said, “I never could see more than one or two stars and maybe the moon on a clear night.  This is all new to me.”

     She tilted her head back again, eyes roaming across the expanse of darkness above.  It was an especially clear night free of fog and clouds, the only light pollution coming from a buzzing neon sign over Moriarty’s.  Charon snuck a look at Nora and gritted his teeth.

     “May I ask you something?”

     She turned and shrugged. “Sure.”

     “Has James told you about the nature of my contract?”

     “Uh, sort of,” she replied, “We haven’t sat down and had a discussion about it…”

     “Do you know that if something should happen to my employer before he transfers the contract and no one else takes it, I’m compelled to find a new employer?”

     “I gathered as much.”

     “I don’t like either scenario,” Charon replied, “I’ve ended up in the employ of many unsavory people because of it.”

     He slid a hand underneath the metal plate on his chest and pulled out a wrinkled, worn bit of paper, creased and torn along the edges, splattered with dark stains that could have been ink or blood or both.

     “In truth, physically holding the contract is meaningless,” Charon said, “But if something should happen to James…”

     He held the piece of paper out to her.  Nora raised her eyebrows.

     “You want me to take it?”

     “If James is killed before he transfers my contract, I have to submit to whoever reads this and declares himself my new employer,” Charon replied, “I’ve done…”

     He cut himself off and looked away.  Nora reached out and took the contract, rubbing the paper beneath her fingers.  It was thick, like parchment, worn as soft as old leather. 

     “If I kept it in a safe somewhere, when James dies or if he releases me, then I must take it to the first person I see,” Charon continued, “If someone saw it, they could take control of it.  If I know that you have it, then I...I could consider you my new employer.”

     “Why would you want me to be your employer?”

     “You’re trustworthy.  Decent.”

     Nora unfolded the piece of paper and glanced down it.  Most of the words were barely legible, written in a tiny, slanted script.  At the very bottom were two signatures and dates – something Smith, followed by July 8th, 2189, and, in brighter, newer ink, James Hawkins and December 20th, 2277.

     “I spent eighty-eight years with the man who called himself Azrukhal,” Charon said, “I don’t want to do it again.”

     Nora looked up, catching the fleeting bit of desperation in his bright eyes.  An almost powerless man begging her to help him.  She started to ask him what would happen if James did decide to transfer the contract but decided against it.

     “What did they do to you?”

     Charon turned away from her, looking back up at the night sky.  What _hadn’t_ they done, over the course of almost five years…

     “Did your husband ever tell you about the idea behind military basic training?” he asked after a several silent minutes, “Why they push soldiers, bring them down, break them?”

     “They would break down the average man,” Nora replied, “And then rebuild him as a soldier.”

     “For me, they…stripped it all away,” Charon replied, “And rebuilt only what suited their purposes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating. Hopefully this didn't not disappoint and I'm not keeping you in too much suspense!


	21. Standards and Pride

**South Boston, Fall 2069**

 

     Nate rolled over in bed, groping blindly for Nora, and frowned to himself when he was met with empty sheets.  He blinked and sat up, glancing around the bedroom.  Her nightgown was tossed over the chair in the corner as usual.  He must’ve overslept.

     Yawning, he rolled out of bed and grabbed his glasses, shoving them onto his face as he trudged down the hall.  Nora stood at the kitchen sink, staring out the tiny window onto the bit of city skyline they had.  She was holding a steaming cup of coffee, one finger jittering anxiously so that her ring made a sharp clanking noise against the ceramic.

     “There’s some still left in the pot.”

     She didn’t look at him, but continued staring out the window.  Nate could see a wrinkle of worry between her eyebrows.

     “Didn’t mean to oversleep,” he replied, grabbing himself a mug from the cupboard.

     “You didn’t.  It’s not even eight yet.”

     Nate frowned and glanced at the clock on the wall.  Seven forty-five, a very odd time for her to be awake.  Nora never got up a minute earlier than she had to.

     “Something wrong?”

     She spared him a quick glance, still knocking her ring against her cup. “My test scores came today.”

     Nate set the coffee carafe down heavily. “Don’t tell me you went down to the post office to get them.”

     She didn’t respond.  Nate sighed as her ring clanked; the noise was rapidly becoming more annoying than the pencil-tapping she usually did.

     “Well, how’d you do?”

     She sighed and nodded over to the breakfast table.  Amidst their assorted study materials and an empty box of Mentats was a fat white envelope, the edge ragged where she’d torn it open.  Nate took it apprehensively and fished out the contents.  Nora wasn’t a great test-taker; she’d been unduly anxious the week she took the LSAT and had claimed since that she’d most likely bombed it.  Nate unfolded the letters, already feeling a ball of anxiety for her curling in his gut.

     Her scores were _excellent._  Above average.

     “Don’t tell me you’re seriously upset by these,” Nate said, glancing over at her incredulously. “Sweetheart, these are _fantastic_.  I’m so proud of you.”

     She ducked away from his congratulatory kiss and abandoned her coffee cup on the counter.

     “They’re not good enough for Harvard.”

     Nate bit his lip to hold in an aggravated sigh.  This again.

     “Nora, we talked about this,” he replied, “As much as I would love that for you, the tuition would leave us in debt until our great-grandchildren were adults.”

     She sent him a withering look and glanced down the paper of her scores, still frowning. “Ten more points and I could have been admitted _and_ gotten that scholarship.”

     Nate let out his sigh and sat down at the table, picking up the untouched _Boston Bugle_ on top his anatomy charts.  There was no reasoning with Nora’s perfectionism.

     The paper was full of little more than bad news and the tension radiating off Nora made it hard to concentrate, anyway, so after a few minutes, Nate refolded the paper and tossed it back onto the table.  Peeking out from under the junk mail that had come with Nora’s LSAT results was a pair of old, yellowed pages, typewritten and folded into thirds.  Nate frowned and picked it up.  The date in the top corner was from almost forty years ago.

     “Found those in the attic last week,” Nora replied, sparing him a dark glance. “You know Grandma, she keeps everything.”

     Nate’s eyes widened as he realized what he was holding – George Doyle’s own LSAT scores, the ink smudged and faded but still legible. 

     They were higher than Nora’s.  Not by much, but still higher.

     They had also been high enough for a Harvard scholarship once.

     Nate dropped the paper and pinched the bridge of his nose.  Her grandfather’s standards and expectations had always been a big deal for Nora, but this was getting to be a bit much.

     “I thought you said that you knew better than to compare yourself to someone else.”

     Nora looked over at him, her finger twitching as if she might start the ring-banging again. “I’m not comparing,” she replied, “I’m just looking at how high the bar has been set.”

     “For heaven’s sake, Nora,” Nate snapped, standing and shaking his head. “Do you even hear yourself?”

     “Why are you getting angry at me?”

     “I’m not angry,” Nate answered, “I’m worried about you.  This isn’t normal.”

     Nora pursed her lips and met his gaze.  For one tense moment, he thought he might have gotten through to her, but then she grabbed the papers off the table stalked away toward the bedroom.  Nate watched her go and then fell back into his chair with another tired sigh.

     “That’s what you’re going to marry, Nathaniel,” he told himself, massaging his forehead. “For better or worse…”

 

**Megaton, Spring 2289**

Nora woke with a start, her skin slick with sweat.  Her head swam with the last bit of Med-X in her system but she pushed herself up and grabbed her Pip-Boy.  It was almost six, and still dark out judging by the quiet.  Careful to make as little noise as possible, she slid out of bed and into her clothes.  Hancock groaned and shifted in his sleep, reaching for her empty spot in the bed, but didn’t wake up.  They hadn’t said anything to each other after their argument; Nora had snuck a dose of Med-X before coming back in and been asleep almost as soon as she crawled under the blanket.

     It had been a wasted trip, however; she’d dreamt about the crib full of babies again, though everyone had been there this time – her mother and grandparents, Nate and Hancock, Preston, Piper, _everyone_ – crowded into the little room and asking her what the infants’ names were.  The damn thing wouldn’t leave her alone at night.

     Shaking the images from her head, she laced her boots and grabbed her bag, hurrying out the door into the pre-dawn chill.

 

     Morning dawned bright and hot, sunlight beating down on the metal roofs of Megaton from an obnoxiously bright sky.  Unable to sleep, James had slipped outside around dawn and planted himself on the steps outside to wait on the others.  He shoved his sunglasses up his nose and sighed, sweating through his clothes already.  He’d grabbed a cold soda from the fridge upstairs before leaving and rolled it over the back of his neck and then on his bruised knuckles, but it was going tepid fast.

     The front door squeaked open and James glanced back.

     “Damn, that thing is bright,” Hancock said, squinting up at the sun and then back down. “Should have a little more consideration for those of us with hangovers.”

     He took a seat nearby as James smirked, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Fun night?”

     “Hardly,” Hancock replied, taking a proffered smoke and flipping out his lighter. “Told Nora my suspicions about that raider gang.”

     “I’m guessing she didn’t take it well.”

     “I got a thinly-veiled ‘go fuck yourself’,” Hancock said, letting out a puff of gray smoke as he sighed. “Not that I blame her for wantin’ to be naïve, after her son --”

     He cut himself off and James raised an eyebrow suspiciously.

     “Isn’t her boy like, eight?”

     “He’ll be eleven soon,” Hancock corrected, “Her, ah, other son.  It’s complicated.”

     “She’s never mentioned another kid.”

     “For good reason,” Hancock said, “Don’t be nosy and ask about him, either, ‘cause she’s in a shitty enough mood as it is.”

     “I’m not nosy.”

     “Yeah, ya’ are.”

     The door squealed again and admitted Charon this time, armored and stoic as usual.  He nodded a greeting to Hancock and then glanced at James’s swollen right hand.

     “What happened?”

     “Just a friendly discussion with Moriarty last night.”

     Charon’s brow furrowed but he only nodded. “That looks broken.”

     “Hey, I know how to throw a punch without cracking my knuckles,” James answered defensively.  He flexed his hand for show, ignoring the stabbing pain that shot through his fingers and into his wrist.  He could see Charon’s frown deepen slightly but ignored it.  His pride was on the line.

     “What are we waiting for?” he asked, glancing around to change the subject. “Where’s Nora?”

     “Waiting on you slow-pokes,” Nora replied, appearing at the bottom of the stairs. “I’m ready when you are.  You lose a fight with a brick wall?”

     James scowled at her. “You should see the other guy.”

     She raised her eyebrows but didn’t say anything.  James stood, flexing his fingers again, and shifted his bag onto his back.  Fuck, it was hot.  Barely April, barely morning, and already boiling outside.

     “Shouldn’t take more than a few hours to get to Bigtown,” he said, “Barring raiders or mutants or getting accidentally cooked on a rock.”

     As the group descended the stairs to leave, a missile slammed into the front gates, breaking them open and sending debris flying in all directions.


	22. Renee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bloody, gross chapter. FYI.

**Sanctuary Hills, February 2078**

     “This where you wanted to go?”

     The driver shifted into park and glanced back at George warily.  The bridge ahead had started to collapse, the railing washed away and parts of the decking torn and rotted.  Debris choked the lake and stream around the little island – tires and trashcans, food packages and fallen branches.

     “This is it.”

     He stood and climbed down off the rig, holding out a hand to help Renee off.  It had taken almost all their supplies, but eventually they’d found someone with a working vehicle who was willing to give them a ride up from Quincy without asking too many questions about the bandages around Renee’s face or the sores on his hands.

     “Good luck,” the driver said, shifting back into gear.  He sounded like he was laughing.

     As the truck peeled away back towards Concord, George led the way across the rickety bridge and into the neighborhood.  Renee gripped his hand as they walked, her hand small and thin in his.

     “It doesn’t look like they got hit too hard,” she said after a few minutes, stopping him in the middle of the road.  The neighborhood was eerily quiet, abandoned and lifeless.  Most of the houses were still somewhat intact, cars remained parked in their driveways, and bare-branched shrubs scratched against each other in the cold wind.  A strange whirring noise caught George’s attention; he lifted his rifle just as a Mr. Handy emerged behind a shrub wall, eyestalks wavering.

     “Visitors!”

     It flew towards them, seemingly oblivious to George’s raised rifle.  They had only encountered a hostile Mister Gutsy so far, but he didn’t want to take a chance.

     “I’m afraid no one is home at the moment,” the Mister Handy continued, “What with all the hubbub in October, you see.”

     George stared.  Had it not been a _machine_ , he’d swear the damn thing had lost its mind.

     “You’re Codsworth,” Renee blurted in surprise.  The Mister Handy turned one eyestalk on her.

     “That is what my mistress named me, yes,” it replied, “Mrs. Nathaniel Wilson, lovely lady she is, do you know her?”

     “She hates that,” George said automatically, “The Nathaniel part, I mean.  She only changed her last name, not her first.”

     The eyestalks blinked at him. “Ah – well, yes.  Mrs. Nora Wilson, then.  Are you friends of hers?”

     George stiffened and glanced down at himself.  Had he changed that much already, that it didn’t recognize him?

     “Do you know where Nora and Nate are?”

     “They took young Shaun and went to the vault, of course,” Codsworth replied, his mechanical voice wavering a tad. “I do hope they’ll return soon.  The radiation levels around here are so minor, now, after that big snowstorm --”

     “The vault was open?” Renee asked, her eyes widening hopefully.

     “Well, of course it was open!” Codsworth replied, “And then they sealed it up, right before the blast.”

     George let out a heavy breath and slumped in relief.  Back in the September, Nate and Nora had come to them with the glossy Vault-Tec brochures and the news that they’d purchased spots for everyone.  He and Renee and Nate’s parents were meant for Vault 88; they and Shaun would go to 111, right behind Sanctuary, if and when something happened.  He’d protested at first, saying he was too old and if his time came, it came, but when it did…well, he’d run. 

     Didn’t matter anyway, because it hadn’t even been finished.  The blast door had been closed, maintenance signs still hung over it.  The Wilsons never made it there.  George and Renee sat huddled in the cave with their neighbors and waited.  They had managed to find a doctor in the chaos of the city several weeks before and he’d diagnosed them both with advanced radiation poisoning; that was when Renee had decided they needed to find Nate and Nora.  Get closure before they died and all that.

     “Thank you for letting us know, Codsworth,” Renee said, smiling at the robot.

     “Would you like to leave a message?” Codsworth replied, “In case they return soon; I can let them know you stopped by.”

     George almost laughed.  Leave a message -- as if their trek across a radioactive Massachusetts had actually just been a quick stop-in for a family lunch.

     “No, that’s alright.”

     As they left, George stopped and glanced back at the hill overlooking Sanctuary Hills.  He couldn’t see the Vault entrance, just an empty control tower and a rusted Humvee.  He wanted to go back, run up the hill and find some way to make them open the blast doors, just for one last chance to see them. 

     “They wouldn’t let us in,” Renee said, taking his hand again.  They were the same, their skin burnt and reddened, peeling off in long strips that only revealed thinner, more sensitive layers underneath.  Weeping sores had opened in all the folds of his skin, disgusting wounds that wouldn’t heal.  Renee’s nose was almost gone and they had both lost their hair.  They were dying, slowly and painfully.

     “I’m just glad they made it in there,” George replied, turning away from the neighborhood.  It had started to rain, an icy drizzle that turned the sky green.  They walked hand in hand, slow over the broken concrete away from Sanctuary and into Concord.  The first time it had rained after the bomb, the rain had burned, sizzling on his skin like drops of acid.  Now, it just felt cold and wet.

     “For better or worse, right?” Renee asked, glancing over at him with a wry smile.

     George squeezed her hand. “Put up with you for almost sixty years so far,” he said, “No use leaving now.”

     She chuckled and pulled him a little closer as they walked. “I love you, you old jerk.”

 

**D.C. Ruins, Winter 2288**

     “George!  George, wake up!”

     George struggled to sit up as Lyssa shook him urgently. “What’s the matter?”

     “Someone’s coming.”

     He glanced in the direction she had pointed, down the dark metro tunnel.  He could hear voices echoing off the ancient concrete, boisterous and heedless of any danger.  As he stood and grabbed his rifle, a mechanical clanking joined the voices.  Brotherhood.

     “Shit,” George muttered, “We need to get everyone hidden.”

     “That’s like herding cats!” Lyssa replied shrilly, eyes wide. “We don’t have time!”

     He pushed her towards the feral ones they’d been caring for. “Get them inside the old maintenance tunnel,” he said, “I’ll be right behind you.”

     Giving him a wary glance, Lyssa grabbed two by the arms, leading them across the old station.  They followed without complaint, pulled along behind her mindlessly.  The little bit of noise they made caught the others’ attention and they shuffled towards her, heads tilted and shoulders slumped.  George gathered up the few belongings they’d brought with them – his old rifle and Lyssa’s knife, a small bag of food, a canteen of irradiated water – and followed.  He pushed a lagging one forward, stepping as quietly as he could as the voices neared them.

     Ahead, around a dark corner, Lyssa had pushed the door to the tunnel open and was trying to direct them inside.  It was like herding cats, or toddlers, but usually they managed to get them all corralled without incident.

     “Hey, hold up,” a voice called from the station behind them, “Looks like someone’s been here.”

     The sound caught the feral ones’ attention and they all began turning towards it, heads lolling as they searched for the source of the voices.

     “Just a bunch of garbage,” another voice replied.  George heard a can skitter across the pavement.

     “Reminds me, you hear about that guy that got court martialed?” the voice continued, “Went up to the Commonwealth with the Prydwen and kept a bunch of ferals in some old building.  Dumbass was _feeding_ them.”

     The feral ones were hooked on the noise now, heedless of George and Lyssa’s frantic attempts to redirect them into the maintenance tunnel.  In a blur of irradiated flesh and raspy snarls, they bolted back into the metro station, straight for the group of Brotherhood soldiers.

     George swore and started to follow them, but Lyssa grabbed his shirt and yanked him back.

     “You can’t go out there, they’ll kill you!”

     “Renee is out there!” George hissed, jerking away.  She opened her mouth to answer but the sound of a minigun revving drowned her out.  George froze in horror as he heard bullets meet flesh and concrete, the cacophony intermingled with feral growls and shouted orders from the Brotherhood.

     “On your left!”

     George gripped his rifle and rounded the corner, just as a red laser burnt a hole into the wall beside him.  A feral one fell, dark blood pouring from the stump left of its left leg.  The noise had attracted the others, the older feral ones that lurked deeper in the metro tunnels.  They didn’t bother him or Lyssa, but they could never get them to come when they left out food and pans of irradiated water.

     Feral ghouls fell under the hail of bullets and laser fire.  Blood and body parts went flying, soaking the ground.  George stood there, unnoticed by the Brotherhood as he lifted his rifle and took aim.

     He’d been a decent shot before he’d ever had to kill for survival, back when he spent weekends deer hunting in the mountains, and two hundred years had only made his aim better.  An Initiate fell a half second after he pulled the trigger, blood spraying from his neck.  George pulled the bolt back and ejected a casing, then lined up the second shot.  Another soldier fell, screaming in pain and clutching his shoulder.

     He didn’t feel angry.  He felt cold.  Cold and dead, as lifeless as the bodies inside the metro.  He squeezed the trigger again and the injured soldier went limp and silent.  The knight, hidden in power armor, swung the minigun around towards him, but he dodged the spray and waited.  With cold accuracy, he waited until the weapon clicked and froze, then whipped around and fired.

     The knight’s helmet exploded in a shower of sparks.  Screeching in rage and pain, he dropped the minigun and fell backwards.  George sprinted towards him, popping off another shot into his chest plate.  It, too, flew apart, leaving the knight exposed down to the frame.

     At that moment, he felt the anger building inside, hot and deep.  His vision clouded as he launched himself at the knight, grip closing around the edges of the frame he could reach.  He didn’t want to shoot this one; he wanted – _needed_ – the satisfaction of strangling the life out him.

     “Get off me, you freak!”

     The knight bucked and threw George to the side.  He landed hard on his side and felt something crack, but pushed himself back up and lunged.  The knight lifted a hand and slammed it into his stomach.  Pain ricocheted through his abdomen and he fell back, clutching the ragged bit of metal protruding from his flesh.  The knight stood and limped away, out of George’s line of sight.  He fell back onto grimy old stairs, blood leaking between his fingers, as his vision began to fade.

 

     When he woke, Lyssa was kneeling over him.  She stared at him anxiously, a line between her brows.  Her eyes were red and puffy, cheeks still stained with tears.

     “Do you feel okay?”

     He took a deep breath, shuddering as the muscles in his core ached with the slight movement.  He caught the dull glint of bloody metal nearby; Lyssa must have pulled the shank out.

     “One of them had stimpaks,” she explained, glancing back at the soldiers he’d gunned down. “I almost didn’t make it in time.”

     George let his head fall back onto the cold floor and closed his eyes.  He didn’t want to be here.  He didn’t want Lyssa to waste a bunch of stimpaks on an old man like him.  She should have just run, left him there with Renee.

     “You can’t take them on like that, George,” she said, her voice quiet but firm.

     “They killed Renee.”

     “I know,” she said, “They killed everyone.  And we’ll get them back for it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that weather patterns, forest fires, and animals often spread radiation? Fun fact of the day. Heh. Let the idea of radioactive bird shit distract you from my horrible horribleness.


	23. Attack on Megaton

      Nora slid down the steep embankment into Megaton, dust and smoke stinging her eyes and throat.  She’d run towards the front gate after the first explosion and been thrown back by another, one that took out an old house next to James’s in a burst of shrapnel and fire.  The town was in pure chaos, screams and gunshots mixed with the twang of laser rifles.

     Coughing, trying not to choke on the ash in the air, Nora glanced around.  She couldn’t see James or Hancock.  Charon was a few feet away, bleeding from a gash on his arm and growling at his shotgun, which looked like it had jammed.

     Nora forced herself to her feet and hurried over to him, ducking amongst the gunfire and covering her face with her shirt.

     “Any good with a rifle?” she wheezed, slinging hers off her shoulder and holding it out to Charon.

     “Decent,” he grunted, tossing his shotgun aside. “Damned forestock won’t move --”

     He was interrupted by the crack and hiss of shattering glass as a Molotov cocktail landed nearby, spraying them with embers.  Nora swore and shoved Charon’s bulk down, narrowly avoiding the burst of flame as it crawled across the dust.  She smelled a sharp tang and Charon slapped her shoulder several times.  A bit of burning glass had landed in her braid, setting it and her shirt alight.

     “Fuck,” she hissed, “What the hell is going on?”

     “Looks like raiders,” Charon replied, “Here, take this so you’re not breathing in all this smoke.”

     He handed her a ratty bandana.  She grabbed it and tied it over her face; it helped some but her eyes still stung and watered.

     “Where’s James and Hancock?”

     Nora didn’t respond, lifting her shotgun in time to pump two shells into the chest of a raider making a beeline for them.  He fell, laser pistol falling from his limp fingertips, as blood gushed into the dirt underneath his body.  She swallowed hard and looked around, trying to get a handle on what was happening.  Bodies littered the ground by the front gate, though it was impossible to tell whose they were in the commotion.

     Her ears rung as Charon fired her rifle and one of the raiders nearby dropped like a stone.  She reloaded her shotgun hastily, looking for an advancing line or something, but there wasn’t one.  Once the gates had opened, pandemonium ensued and there didn’t seem to be any real organization to the attack.  Several buildings were on fire, flames climbing along the roofs and walkways, belching ash and black smoke into the sky.

     “James!”

     Charon’s shout sounded _panicked_ , uncontrolled.  Nora barely had time to register how odd it was before he had pushed past her, hunched as he scrambled up the steep incline.  Just as he neared the top and straightened, rifle pressed to his shoulder, a raider stepped out of the shadow of a building behind him, bat lifted, and brought it swinging down.  It connected just across his shoulder, knocking him sideways.  Nora squeezed the trigger of her shotgun and missed, buckshot barely grazing the raider’s arm. 

     Charon sprawled in the dirt, bleeding and glassy-eyed; Nora fired a second time and hit the raider square in the chest.  She fumbled for a second set of shells in the pouch on her belt as the raider hissed in anger, clutching her chest plate.  She slipped the shells into the barrel and snapped it closed, but before she could fire, the raider swung again and caught her in the side.  Nora felt her ribs crack as the air left her lungs in a sharp grunt, barbed wire tearing through her shirt and catching the flesh beneath.

     She fell to the side, coughing and wheezing, the bandana around her face clinging to her mouth and nose as she desperately sucked in air.  The pain was horrendous, lancing up and down her ribs and hip like an electric shock.  Her vision blurred as the raider loomed over her.  She tried to lift her shotgun but couldn’t make her arm work properly.

     “Take her gun,” a gravelly voice said nearby.  The raider obeyed, grabbing her shotgun and shoving her into the dirt.  Nora shouted as her broken ribs were jostled, arms coming up over her head protectively.  She wheezed and coughed, the hard metallic taste of blood in her mouth. 

     “Both of the them,” the voice continued, “Do you want to get shot as soon as you turn around?”

     Nora let her hands fall as the raider leaned over her, grabbing for the 10mm at her hip.  She tried to swat her away and was rewarded with a swift jab in the side that sent pain ricocheting into her chest.

     “I’m going to string you up, you bitch,” she wheezed, rolling to her good side as she felt her belt holster loosen. “Feed you to my fucking dog --”

     “I’m sure,” the raider replied with a derisive laugh, “You’re in such good shape to make threats.”

     Nora heaved a breath and pushed herself up.  The commotion had died down as the raiders held residents at gunpoint, looting the homes that hadn’t started to burn.  Charon was still on the ground nearby, face-down and motionless.  Anger and pain raged through her as her head swam, scrambling her thoughts.  She had to find Hancock and James, had to get a Stimpak for Charon, had to jam her switchblade in that bitch’s eye --

     “Here he is,” someone said nearby.  She glanced around and saw that most of the raiders had gathered in a semi-circle, others still holding residents at gunpoint.  One of the raiders – a tall, lean ghoul wearing what looked like the tattered remnants of a Brotherhood uniform – struggled to the front of the circle and threw James bodily into the dirt.

     “James Hawkins?” the raspy-voiced ghoul who had ordered Nora’s weapons confiscated walked up to the group and stopped in front of James.  He was tall and bulky, almost as tall as Charon, lightly armored and carrying only one weapon.  Nora gritted her teeth as she realized it was her shotgun, the one Preston had given her a year ago after her old one was destroyed in a super mutant attack.

     James looked worse off than she was, bleeding profusely from a bullet wound in his thigh and a gash along his jaw.  He struggled to sit up, barely managing to lift himself onto all fours.  What the hell did these raiders want with him?

     “James Hawkins,” the ghoul, clearly the group leader, repeated loudly, “Fuck.  Somebody give him a Stimpak before he dies right here.”

     There was a shuffle and someone jabbed a needle into his shoulder.  James swore and spat, twisting away.

     “Where’s your bodyguard?”

     “He spent the night with your mom,” James retorted, earning himself a swift kick from the same raider that had hit Nora.

     “Where is he?”

     James coughed, clutching his stomach, as Nora looked around desperately.  She could barely move for the pain, but even if she could, there was nothing she could do.  She was unarmed except for the knife in her boot and she was certain that if she made a move, the raiders would fire on the civilians.

     “You must’ve fucking killed him,” James sputtered, “Otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here with you dick-faces, now would I?”

     The raider boss stared down at James for a moment. “Too bad,” he said after a moment, “Lyssa, the collars.  Now.”

     As Nora watched, the ghoul woman took a leather bag off her back and pulled a pair of large metal rings from it.  Slave collars.

     She snapped one around James’s neck, smirking as she did so, then moved to the assembled civilians nearby.  The other went to a beefy older man with a white beard and hair.  When she’d snapped it on, a pair of her comrades hoisted him off his knees and marched forward towards what had once been the front gates.

     “What about these two?”

     Nora struggled not to panic as the ghoul gestured to her right, where Hancock was knelt, hand pressed to a bloody knife wound on his side.  Next to him was another ghoul that Nora didn’t recognize, a Megaton resident, she guessed, by the way he was trembling visibly.

     “Restrain them until we know they can behave,” the overboss replied, sparing them a quick glance.  Lyssa nodded and removed a length of rope from her bag; Hancock and the other ghoul were bound and marched forward with the man in the slave collar.  As he passed her, Hancock glanced over and stopped, lurching forward for a moment with a pained groan.

     “Move it, you fucking pansy,” Lyssa ordered, giving him a rough shove.  He pitched forward onto his knees, shuddering a breath.  Nora reached for him, barely able to contain her panic, and felt him shove something at her.

     “I said to move it!” Lyssa yelled again.  Hancock glared at her and stood and Nora scrabbled back, clutching her aching ribs. 

     “No funny stuff, or this one gets a new haircut,” the overboss yelled, nodding down to James.  He had him by the collar and gave him a good shake for posterity.  Nora’s breath hitched and she squeezed the stimpak Hancock had given her to her side, hiding the little syringe in the folds of her bloodied shirt.  Carrying the weapons and supplies they had looted, the group marched out of Megaton without a backward glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, another cliffhanger! But I really can't help it. If I wrote everything out so there wasn't a cliffhanger, the "chapter" would be like 10,000 words long. The next one is coming soon, I promise!


	24. Taken By Surprise

     Charon woke with a start as water poured over his head, hot and tingly.  He swore and sat up, reaching for the knife he kept at his side, but it was gone.  Nora jumped back from him, dropping the canteen, and he relaxed a bit.

     “What are you doing?” he demanded, head throbbing and vision swimming.

     “Irradiated water,” she answered, “They didn’t leave us much in the way of medical supplies and Church wouldn’t give me a stimpak for you.”

     “What are you talking about?”

     Nora squinted at him. “The raiders, remember?”

     Charon closed his eyes. His head and neck throbbed as he tried to remember, but the only thing that came to him was an explosion, a burst of flame and noise –

     “That ghoul gang,” Nora supplied, “They got the jump on us.  Your gun jammed and one of them smacked you with a bat.”

     “Where’s James?”

     “They took him.  And Hancock.  And two others --”

     “They took him?”

     “Put a slave collar on him,” Nora answered, “They were asking for you, I don’t know why.”

     Charon rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the swollen, broken flesh.  Nora set the canteen aside and sat down across from him. The acrid smell of burnt rubber and scorched metal hung in the air, and it was eerily quiet.

     “They kidnapped James,” he said, trying to work things over in his mind.  His brain didn’t seem to want to cooperate, throwing fuzzy, disjointed images at him as he tried to think. “And Hancock.  Who else?”

     “Old guy with a beard,” Nora replied, “And another ghoul.  No one’s told me anything about who they were or why the gang might have taken them specifically.”

     Charon pressed his fingers to his eyes and sighed. “Gob and Moriarty,” he mumbled, “They must be expanding their vendetta to anyone who’s ever mistreated a ghoul.”

     Nora raised her eyebrows at him questioningly and Charon sighed.

     “Moriarty runs a saloon here in town,” he explained, “Or, he did.  Gob’s worked there for decades, paying off some ridiculous debt he incurred when Moriarty bought him off some slavers.  Everyone in Megaton knows this, and Gob’s adopted family is in Underworld.”

     Nora nodded slowly, sighing and shifting in her seat.

     “They probably assumed Hancock was in the same situation.”

     Nora snorted. “He’d chew off his own legs if anyone so much as told him when to put pants on.”

     Silence hung between them for a long minute.  Charon rubbed the bruised lumps along his neck and shoulder, feeling the flesh begin to knit itself back together bit by bit, the irradiated water soaked into his collar tingling almost pleasantly.

     “I don’t know where they went,” Nora said finally, “And the only weapons we have are a few knives.”

     “I know where we can resupply,” Charon replied, pushing himself to his feet unsteadily. “And I think I know where they’re going.  But we’re going to need help with this.”

 

     “Vault 101?”

     “Where James is from,” Charon replied, wrenching open the old shack door and beckoning Nora into the dark tunnel beyond. “People rarely ever enter or leave, so this area outside is pretty secure.”

     Nora nodded and tried not to curl her lip as the giant blast door came into view.  Charon was moving along the rock wall to the left, eyes and hands roving, searching for something.

     “Several years ago, James kind of lost it for a little while,” he explained as Nora watched him, “Took a bad hit or something, hallucinated and got really paranoid.  So we spent a couple days stashing supplies in hidden caches around the wasteland.  It was easier to humor him until the high wore off, rather than try to make him understand that most of his caches would probably be found and looted.  However, unless someone got incredibly lucky, one should still be here.”

     He stopped at a jagged outcrop, pushing against a section of rock that jutted out of the wall.  He grunted and strained and, with a scrape and crack, the rock fell away from the wall, landing heavily on the ground and shattering.  Behind it was a dark hole.  Charon reached in and gave a triumphant nod.

     “There’s stuff in there,” he said, “Come here, you’re smaller.”

     He knelt and Nora stepped into his laced hand, letting him lift her up to the hole.  It was pitch black and musty; she fumbled for the flashlight on her Pip-Boy and then the hole was bathed in sickly green light.  A radroach skittered away from the light and Nora jumped.

     “Shit,” she yelped, cracking her head on the rock above. “Fucking bugs…”

     “Do you see a green footlocker?”

     Nora grunted and wiggled deeper into the hole, pulling her knees up under her and gritting her teeth against the pain in her ribs.  The hole was just big enough for her to crouch inside, neck bent at an odd angle.

     “Yeah, looks like a bunch of stuff is still here.”

     She grabbed the footlocker and pulled it towards her, brushing away the cobwebs and dirt before sliding it out to Charon’s waiting grasp.  Behind it were a pair of duffle bags, which she also grabbed, dislodging them from the little alcoves they’d been shoved into.  She tossed them out to Charon and then shuffled backwards.  Charon caught her as she tried to slide out of the hole and lost her footing.

     “Careful.”

     “Thanks,” she muttered, brushing rock dust off her clothing.  Her side ached from the effort and movement.

     The footlocker and duffel bags were full to bursting with weaponry, enough to stock both KL-E-0 and Arturo’s shops.  Charon sorted through the parts in the footlocker and, in a quick two minutes, had assembled a pair of 12-gauge shotguns. 

     “I think there are parts for a rifle here, too,” he said, handing her one. “How many grenades?”

     “Ten frag and eight plasma,” Nora replied, “Holy shit, what did you guys do, knock over a caravan?”

     “Yes.”

     Nora looked up from a pile of revolvers and blinked. “Well, their loss, our gain, I guess.  The fuck is this?”

     “A railway rifle,” Charon replied, glancing up and then back down as he sorted boxes of ammunition. “It shoots railroad spikes. Those big iron nails.”

     Nora contemplated the gun for a minute, turning it over in her hands, and then nodded. “I’m going to use this on those bastards that took my shotgun.”

     “It kicks like an angry mule,” Charon warned, “And the range is terrible.”

     “I’d imagine,” she said, “I think I’ve seen something like this at Railroad HQ, but I’m not usually one for experimental weapons…”

     She glanced down the sight ring as Charon watched her out of the corner of his eye.  She was taking everything in stride, calm and collected where he had expected at least some theatrics.

     “I’m panicking on the inside,” she said after a moment, setting the railway rifle down and picking up a hunting rifle. “I learned pretty quickly that half the work of survival is acting like you’re a lot tougher than you are.”

     Charon nodded, wondering how she had known what he was thinking.  He didn’t say anything, just focused on his sorting with his head down.  Pain crawled up and down his neck, a deep throbbing in his muscles.  He wasn’t sure if it was the residual effects of his injury or the conditioned response to being away from his employer, but it made it hard to concentrate on anything too complicated.

     When he had collected enough ammunition, he loaded the shotgun, slid a pair of grenades into his pocket, and stood.

     “I’m going to get help,” he said, “Go back to Megaton and wait there.”

     “Where are you going?” Nora asked, frowning.

     “Underworld,” Charon replied, “Fawkes should still be there.  He likes James and he’s good in a fight.”

     “I can go with you.”

     “No,” Charon said firmly, “No offense, but I can move faster without you.  Get your weapons ready to go.  Sleep some if you can.  I’ll be back by dawn.”

 

     Deacon adjusted the knobs on his binoculars, zooming in to the front entrance of Fort Hagen.  The debris had been removed, but he was fairly certain it had been locked from the inside.  Probably booby-trapped, too.

     He made a mental note to ask Nora why the phrase was “booby-trapped” when it had nothing to do with boobs just as something cold and hard pushed against the back of his neck.

     “Who are you?”

     He lifted his hands in surrender, dropping the binoculars. “Just a scavver, man.”

     “Bullshit,” the voice replied, “You’ve been following me for two days.”

     “Wasn’t me,” Deacon answered, “I’ve been waiting to see if a radstag would come along or something --”

     The metal pressed into his skull, which he’d guessed was the barrel of a gun, shifted then and came crashing against the side of his head.

     “Oh, shit,” Deacon yelped, falling to the side.  His ear was bleeding profusely and pain wracked his head.

     “You were following me.  Get up.”

     Deacon did as he was told, still holding one hand to his head, and turned to face his captor.  It was the bearded man he had been following, the one who’d slipped his tail just as they came within view of Fort Hagen.

     “You with her?”

     “With who?”

     “Nora Wilson.”

     “Never heard of her.”

     “Right,” the bearded man replied, scowling.  He pressed the barrel of his pipe pistol into Deacon’s chest and then jerked his head towards the Fort.

     “In there.  Now.”

     “I’d rather not.”

     “Move it or I’ll shoot you.”

     Deacon nodded and let the man direct him forward. “You’re very persuasive.”


	25. Nice Story

     James shivered and blinked heavily.  How did it get so cold?  It’d been blistering most of the day.

     “You look terrible, JJ.”

     He turned his head, cheek pressing into the dirt, and tried to frown, but it hurt.  Everything hurt, even blinking.  Sarah stared down at him and shook her head, reaching out to run her fingers through his hair.  James took a deep breath and closed his eyes again.  Her fingernails raked over his scalp gently and he felt himself relax.

     “Going to start purring for me?” she teased, giving him that half smile.  He tried to say something but he couldn’t make his mouth move right.  His tongue felt thick and clumsy and his lips were numb.  She laid a hand on his forehead, a gentle touch underneath the scars and callouses.  She’d always been good at that, switching her touch from the firmness needed for a rifle grip to soft caresses in the dark.

     “He’s still breathing,” someone said over him.  He felt a rough finger grab his eyelid and force it up.  Light pressed against his vision like a knife and pain shot through his head.  He groaned and pulled away.

     “James, you gotta wake up, buddy.”

     The rough hands slapped his cheek and the pain intensified, sharp like a knife stab through his jaw and head.

     “The jaw’s not healed up yet, ease off,” a second voice interrupted, “S’long as he’s breathing…”

     James squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could and tried to curl in on himself.  He was still freezing.  He didn’t want to wake up; he wanted a blanket and a very large syringe of Med-X.  He wanted Sarah back.

     “Think you could snag another Stimpak?”

     “Probably,” the first voice replied, dropping an octave. “They’re not exactly keeping inventory…”

     James shifted in the dirt.  His arms were too heavy to move and his back was stiff.  His hips and ribs throbbed.  He was still so fucking cold.

 

     As Gob stood and slipped away, Hancock sat back against the rusty chain-link fence he’d been lashed to and closed his eyes.  It was like Goodneighbor in Vic’s days all over again.  After they were done with James, they’d tossed him into the pen and left without so much as a backward glance.  Poor bastard looked about as attractive as a moldy slab of Brahmin meat, swollen and bruised and covered in his own blood.  He’d barely moved and hadn’t spoken besides a few pained moans into the dirt.

     “You know this one?”

     Hancock opened his eyes and glanced up.  The overboss had opened the gate and leaned against the support stake casually.  Hancock looked away again.  He’d had his suspicions that George Doyle had joined a raider gang, but he hadn’t expected him to be _leading_ the fucking thing.

     Fitting, though, considering the lengths his grandchildren had gone to for their respective causes.  They weren’t a family that half-assed it.

     “He was my guide,” Hancock answered, patting his pocket instinctively for a cigarette. “We were on the full walking tour of the Capital Wastes, but I don’t think I’m recommending this vacation package to my friends.”

     George Doyle smirked at him. “Cute.  That kind of sarcasm reminds me of someone I used to know.  Maybe I’ll go easy on you for the chuckle.”

     Hancock snorted and shook his head. “Let me guess,” he said, “I remind you of your granddaughter.”

     George frowned as a hint of confusion sparked in his deep-set gray eyes. “How did you…?”

     “How’d I guess?” Hancock interrupted, “I didn’t.  I’m well-acquainted with Nora Wilson’s attitude.”

     Gob reappeared then, turning a dark corner and then stopping short when he saw George.  He clutched a Stimpak in one hand and his eyes widened fearfully.

     “Give it to him,” George said, looking away from the trembling ghoul. “If you like him so much.”

     “James has never mistreated me,” Gob replied, stepping around George and skittering over to the prone Vaultie. “He’s not who you think he is.”

     Gob uncapped the Stimpak and slipped the needle into James’s arm.  As they watched, he blinked his eyes open and coughed, groaning and swearing under his breath but still alive.  George turned back to Hancock, his expression a mix of confusion and anger.

     “How did you know my girl’s name?”

     “She introduced herself to me in Goodneighbor.”

     “Am I supposed to believe you happen to be some old friend of hers?”

     “I don’t mean before the war,” Hancock answered tiredly, rubbing at the pinprick headache in his forehead. “You know what they did to her in that Vault?”

     “She was a fucking popsicle,” James said, groaning as he pushed himself into a sitting position.  He laughed and spat a glob of blood into the dirt, wiping at his swollen lips with an even more swollen hand.

     “Frozen TV dinner,” he continued, still chuckling to himself. “Kept her fresh and crisp for two centuries.  I saw the inside of that Vault, enough freezer space for a full case of meat…”

     George stared skeptically and Hancock rolled his eyes.

     “He’s an idiot, but he’s right,” he said, “Cryostasis.  She didn’t leave the vault until late ’87.”

     “Nice story,” George replied, “And what, you just happened to be in this neck of the woods?”

     “We were looking for you, jackass,” Hancock answered, groping his pockets again and sighing when he remembered they’d taken everything.

     “’We’?” George asked, scowling. “Who the fuck are you and why should I believe you?”

     “He’s boinking her,” James sang, and then laughed again.  He was leaning against the chain link, staring unfocused at the dirt and grinning stupidly. “No worries that she won’t like your new look because she _loooves_ ghouls.”

     Hancock rubbed a knuckle into his forehead and took a steadying breath.  The headache was spreading from a pinprick to a hammering throb.  He needed some fucking nicotine, or a puff of Jet, or a first-class ticket out of this desert hellhole.  Preferably all three.

     “You need a muzzle,” George snapped at James, glaring in disgust.  He spared Hancock one last glance and then turned on his heel and stalked away. 

 

     _Seriously…just let him go._

     Nora jumped and glanced around, her heart pounding painfully in her chest.  It had been a long time since she’d dreamed about Kellogg but his face was still clear in her mind, his voice echoing in her ears.  He’d tried to warn her about Shaun and she’d ignored him.  Hancock had tried to warn her about her grandfather…

     She sat up straight, rubbing a crick in her neck, and glanced at the time on her Pip-Boy.  She had fallen asleep on the couch after several hours of kicking around anxious and aimless, but she was still exhausted and drained.  Her bag sat at her feet, full to bursting with ammunition and bottled water, ready the instant Charon returned.

     _No funny stuff._

     She’d been in denial for hours, busying herself with waking Charon and packing her supplies, but in the darkness and solitude, she didn’t have anywhere to run from it anymore.  How many times had she heard that phrase growing up?  She’d found herself using it with Shaun without even thinking; those words, wrapped around a faded Boston accent, were the confirmation she hadn’t wanted in the slightest.

     Nora stood and paced the living area.  Charon was supposed to be back soon, but it wasn’t soon enough.  She’d get Hancock back and then they’d return to the Commonwealth, forget this stupid trip had ever happened.

     She ran a hand through her hair and sighed when her fingers met burnt, gnarled ends.  The Molotov had done a number on it, destroying several inches she’d kept clean and trimmed as her last homage to prewar standards of beauty.  She stared at the tips for a moment and then shook her head.

     She found a decent pair of scissors and a small round mirror in James’s room, buried in a desk drawer underneath a random assortment of other junk.  With the mirror propped against the wall, she began snipping.  When the floor around her feet was littered with dirty red curls, she brushed out what was left and wound it onto her head, pinning it back into a tight bun.  Smoothing out the flyways, she scooped the cut locks into a trashcan and grabbed her bag and Minuteman hat.

     She opened the door to leave just as Charon appeared on the steps.  His face was twisted in a deep grimace that looked like aggravation and pain.

     “Are you ready?” he asked gruffly.

     Nora nodded. “Did Fawkes come?”

     “He’s waiting outside the gate,” Charon replied, “We’re heading west.  Let’s move.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My cat sat on the keyboard while I was proofreading, so any typos are his fault.


	26. Dysfunctional Family

     Deacon leaned back against the wall, mattress springs squeaking underneath him, and watched curiously as his captor finished shaving in the nearby sink.  He was _young_.  Younger than Deacon would have guessed initially.  He cleaned up well, despite the hard, flinty gleam in his dark eyes.

     “What’s your name?”

     The man looked over at him, rinsing his straight razor under the faucet. “What’s it to you?”

     Deacon shrugged. “Just curious.”

     “It’s none of your business.”

     “Suit yourself.”

     Deacon sighed and glanced around.  Whoever this guy was, he’d gone to great lengths to hole himself up safely inside Fort Hagen, littering the halls with mines and traps to replace the built-in security system a certain shotgun-toting Vaultie had destroyed a while back.  He secured Deacon in what looked like an old storage area, a tiny room made of four security fences and a heavy door with magnetic locks.  He had a dirty mattress, a bucket, and a full view of the living area the man had set up for himself.  There was a terminal and a proper bed, a makeshift stove, a shelf of various foodstuffs, and a large stockpile of weapons and ammunition.   

     “Expecting company?”

     The man threw him a scowl as he patted his face dry. “I prefer to not look like a lice-ridden degenerate.”

     “Ah, you didn’t look that bad,” Deacon replied with a grimace.

     “Do me a favor and shut up,” the man said, “I’m not in the mood for your mindless yammering.”

     “Ouch,” Deacon answered, “Alright, then.  I guess.  Whatever.”

     The man scowled at him and walked away, through a set of battered steel doors into what Deacon guessed had been a dining hall or cafeteria.  With his captor out of sight momentarily, he tested the door, leaning his full weight against it, but it didn’t budge in the slightest.  The steel grates were welded together, solid seams barely touched by rust.  He wasn’t going to get out by persistence or brute force.

     He sat back down on his mattress as the man came back, carrying several small ceramic pots.  He set them down on a table and Deacon saw that they were filled with mutated ferns.  He watched in amazement as the man arranged them under a set of flickering fluorescent lights and then watered each plant in turn, measuring water from the tap into a glass beaker.  He counted the flower buds in each pot and measured the temperature of the soil, then sat down at his terminal and began transcribing the data.

     He’d been kidnapped by a gardener.

     “You know, no one’s going to come for me,” Deacon said, “I don’t have any family or friends that would put up anything as ransom.”

     “I don’t need money.”

     “But you _do_ need another mouth to feed?”

     “Who said I was going to feed you?”

     Deacon leaned back against the wall and sighed.  This was going to be fun.

 

     Hancock shifted his wrists against the rope and flexed his fingers, trying to bring some life back into them.  His head throbbed, his mouth was dry, and he was having trouble focusing his thoughts as withdrawal set in.  James had passed out an hour before, pale and shivering from blood loss but still alive.  Just outside their cage, in full view of most of the camp, Moriarty’s body hung from a makeshift gallows, swinging like a grotesque flag.

    Was this what it had been like for the drifters in Goodneighbor, sitting in the streets below when he and Fahrenheit tossed Vic’s body over the balcony of the State House?  He wanted to tell himself no, that had been different – he wanted to do right by the people in Goodneighbor, while these people were just out for blood – but it didn’t feel much different.  He knew that bloodlust and the anger that drove it, the spike of adrenaline like a high that you couldn’t find in a syringe or inhaler.  While he had no problems with violence, he’d always thought he was different than those jacked-up raiders tooling through the wasteland, killing for the hell of it, hanging bodies and sticking skulls on pikes.  Was he really that different?

     He rubbed his forehead with his thumbs, trying in vain to rub away the headache.  A clatter and a yell from across the camp caught his attention; two of the raiders were bitching at each other over some indiscretion involving a choice weapon.  As he watched, they started throwing punches, rolling in the dirt as others gathered around, simultaneously jeering and attempting to break them up.

     “The fuck is going on?”

     George Doyle strode into the chaos without flinching and the raiders backed away like frightened children.  Swearing, he grabbed one of the fighters by his collar and lifted him off his victim, throwing him easily to the side.  He was astonishingly strong and agile for being almost three hundred.

     “Act like you’ve got more than Brahmin shit for brains,” he yelled, glancing around and shaking his head.  Grumbling, the raiders ambled away like chastised children.  One of them, the wiry girl who’d beat Charon and Nora in Megaton, pushed through the crowd and jogged up to George as he made his way toward Hancock and James.

     “When are we gonna take care of these two?” she asked, jerking her head at them. 

     “When you guys can be reasonable adults, not savages,” George replied, glaring at her. “I leave for an hour and they’re starting fist fights, Lyssa.”

     “They’re riled up,” Lyssa argued, “You got everybody excited taking on that town and now we’re sitting on our asses --”

     “It’s not going to be constant action,” George snapped, “They’re not children.  Tell ‘em to deal with it.”

     She scowled. “Deimos, if you keep wandering off to do god knows what --”

     “Shut up,” George said, stopping in front of the gate. “Remember who’s in charge here.”

     She hesitated a moment, still scowling, and then turned and stalked away.  Hancock shifted under George’s gaze.  His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed in red, and seemed to have trouble staying focused for more than a few seconds; his posture was unnaturally stiff and he’d developed a strange tremor in one hand. 

     “Greek god of terror?” Hancock asked, shaking his head. “Real subtle.”

     George ignored him. “If my Nora is alive out there, where’s her family?”

     Hancock hesitated a moment.  This seemed like the sort of thing he should let Nora explain, but he didn’t think she was going to be in an explaining sort of mood whenever she caught up to them.

     “Nate died in the vault,” he said finally, “And Shaun’s at home up in Commonwealth.”

     George stared for a moment and then sneered. “Nora wouldn’t hitch up with someone else if Nate died,” he said, “Girl was still head over heels for that boy after thirteen years.”

     Hancock looked away.  “Well, she did hitch up with me,” he said.  Wasn’t like he didn’t already have an inferiority complex –

     “What’s Nora short for?”

     “Suddenly decide I might just be tellin’ the truth?” Hancock asked, “It’s for Honoria.”

     “How do I know you didn’t just get your information from some prewar records?”

     “You don’t.”

     “Then tell me something about her that wouldn’t be in a vault terminal.”

     For fuck’s sake.  Hancock closed his eyes as his head throbbed.  His mind drifted momentarily to the pair of freckles inside Nora’s right thigh but he shoved that thought away before it accidentally tumbled out of his mouth.

     “No,” he said, “I ain’t playing your stupid mind games.”

     George didn’t reply, still staring hard at him.  He squinted, the same way Nora and Shaun did when they were trying to figure you out.  James shifted in his stupor and Hancock waited.

     “What’re you on?”

     “What?”

     “Might fool your crony, but you ain’t foolin’ me,” Hancock continued, “You’re messed up on something chemical.”

     “How would you know?”

     “Takes one to know one,” Hancock muttered.  George scowled at him.

     “You give me some bullshit story that my granddaughter is alive and well, then try to tell me she’s cozied up to a _ghoul_ with a drug problem.  You know that girl used to put junkies away, right?  Locked ‘em up with criminals.”

     He knew.  He also knew she carried that tucked away with all her other sins, a burden of guilt that drove a good portion of her life day to day.

     “Well, if you don’t believe me, then please, fuck off somewhere and bother someone else.”

     George waited a second longer, still scowling and squinting, then turned and left.  Hancock sighed in relief and heard James cough as he struggled to sit up.

     “Talk about a dysfunctional family,” he said, pulling himself up against the chain link. “Is your side at least somewhat normal?”

     Hancock shook his head. “Not really.”

     “Sucks,” James replied.  He was still swollen all over, though it had begun to go down some and he looked closer to human.  He wasn’t using his right hand and his speech was slurred, but Hancock was glad he didn’t have to add him to the list of people he’d seen beaten to death.

     “What do you think they’re planning on doing with us?”

     “I’m not convinced they know,” Hancock answered, surveying the roaming raiders. “Their overboss is three syringes away from going feral and the rest are fighting over the loot.”

     “Isn’t that every raider gang?”

     Hancock gave a conceding nod. “Guess so.”

 

     George pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes as his head swam.  He could hear Lyssa gathering up the syringes as she moved around behind him.

     “He’s lying to you,” she said, “He’s trying to rattle you, save his own skin.”

     “He knew Nate and Shaun…”

     “Because he read it on some old vault terminals, or he talked to people in Underworld,” Lyssa replied, her voice hard. “Look, I don’t want to sound like a bitch, but your family is dead.  Nora is dead.  You have me and the rest of those ghouls out there now.”

     George let his hands fall and opened his eyes.  The room was dark, lit only by flickering oil lamps, but he could see them in the corner, his three girls.  They hadn’t spoken to him in hours.  Nora had her face turned away; all he could see was her profile, cast in shadow. 

     Lyssa grabbed his shoulders and knelt in front of him, blocking his view.

     “Deimos, you have to keep it together.”

     “Don’t call me --”

     “That’s your name,” she interrupted, her expression hard. “Embrace it.  This is what you wanted, what we wanted.”

     “I want Renee back.”

     “If I could bring her back, I would,” Lyssa said, taking his hands in her own. “I miss her, too.  You guys were the only family I had.”

     She squeezed his hands, her black eyes softening. “We’re on the right path,” she said, “Renee and the others didn’t deserve what they got, not even a little.  We’re going to change things.  But you have to live in the present.”

     “Then why did you give me this shit?” George asked, scratching irritably at the red striations on his forearm.  His girls were gone and he could feel the tremor in his hand getting worse.

     “I thought it would help,” Lyssa replied with a heavy sigh, “I’m sorry.  It was my mistake. The next time we come across a caravan, I’ll make sure to get some Addictol for you.”

     George shook his head and stood.  He was coming down; the crash wasn’t far off.

     “Forget it,” he said, “I know what we need to do.”


	27. Lyssa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I haven't forgotten this fic. This month has totally kicked my ass work-wise. Very little time to edit or write or anything. I hope this update doesn't disappoint and the next chapter should be up tonight or tomorrow.

**Underworld, Summer 2275**

George heard the shouting and breaking glass from the lobby before the doors of the Ninth Circle even opened.  Renee glanced up from the book she was reading and shook her head.

     “That place is a public nuisance,” she sniffed, turning the page carefully.  The double doors of the Ninth Circle burst open, banging back against the wall so hard the glass panes rattled.  Charon emerged, dragging a small woman by one arm.  She struggled against him, screeching and thrashing, but the massive bouncer was unperturbed.  He threw her forward towards the stairs, his face an expressionless mask.

     “Don’t come back.”

     The woman let out a loud, feral noise, half angry yell and half sob, grabbing for Charon’s pant leg.  He kicked back at her, face twisting momentarily.  The woman shrank back like an abused dog and George could see the tear tracks on her dirty face.  Ahzrukhal appeared in the doorway, adjusting his tie and looking contemptuously down at his ejected patron. 

     “Thank you, Charon.”  Charon turned and strode back into the bar without acknowledging him.  The doors banged shut behind Ahzrukhal and the lobby buzzed with whispers.  The woman sat on the steps, knees pulled to her chest as she sobbed into her hands.

     “And you’re going to pretend nothing’s happening, too?” Renee closed her book and smacked George on the shoulder with it, glaring. “Hold this.  Don’t lose my page.”

     She shoved the book at him.  He took it with a sigh as she stood and marched up to the girl, kneeling in front of her with an extended hand.  He watched, exchanging glances with Winthrop briefly, as Renee spoke to the girl in quiet, soothing tones.  After a moment, she turned and beckoned George over.  He sighed and followed obediently.

     “So we’re picking up another stray?”

     “Don’t be an asshole,” Renee replied reproachfully, “Get some clean water and meet us at Dr. Barrows’.  Come on, sweetheart.”

     She wrapped her arms around the sniveling drunk’s shoulders and gently pulled her to standing.

     “It hurts so much,” the woman whimpered, pressing her face against Renee’s shoulders.

     “I know it does,” Renee said with a nod, “We’ll get you taken care of.”

 

     “She didn’t say how she was exposed,” Renee whispered, settling onto the old couch next to George. “It must have been a big dose, though – it’s happening fast.”

     George nodded, staring down at the cracked, grimy tiles.  He’d seen a lot of people go ghoul in the last two centuries and it was never an easy transition, but it seemed like the faster it happened, the harder it was.  All the pain and displacement condensed into a few weeks, no time to adjust – he and Renee had turned slowly, little bits at a time, alongside their neighbors. 

     “Ahzrukhal was giving her something for the pain,” Renee continued, sighing and shaking her head as she stared at the sleeping mass across from them. “When she ran out of caps…well, you know how he is.”

     “He sent his guard dog after her and we’re cleaning up the mess.”

     Renee pursed her lips and shook her head. “We’re being decent human beings and giving the poor girl a place to sleep.”

     “We’re not humans, Renee.”

     She narrowed her eyes at him dangerously, clutching her book with white knuckles. “I’m in no mood for your semantics, George Doyle,” she said, “What has gotten into you?”

     “Nothing,” he replied, “What’re you reading?”

     “Don’t change the subject.”

     “I’m tired of you getting attached to these young girls that…”

     Renee stood and strode across the room, her anger palpable in the warm air.  George swallowed and glanced down at the book she’d left behind in her chair – _Grimms’ Fairy Tales._   She’d had this copy for several years, the gilded cover faded from wear, pages brittle and yellow.  She always managed to find a new one once a copy fell apart, keeping them close with the few pictures they’d kept of Jane and Nora.

     “I know she’s not my daughter, George,” Renee said at last, her voice muffled as she rooted through the foodstuffs on a nearby shelf. “I know she’s not.”

 

     “You used to read these to your _children_?”

     Renee smiled and gave a small chuckle as Lyssa raised an eyebrow at her. “Well, not these versions,” she said, “Cleaned up ones.  They’re more romantic when you take out the limb chopping and heavy-handed moralism.”

     Lyssa stared down at the book skeptically. “Who cuts off their toes just for a prince?”

     Renee laughed again and George stared down at his own reading material, a battered compendium of Greek mythology.  In the weeks she had been with them, Lyssa had been a…challenge.  She was young, impetuous, mouthy, and Renee loved her. 

     “She’s got so much spirit,” she’d told George a few nights before, staring at the ceiling in the dark. “She’s smart and tough.  She reminds me of them.”

     George hadn’t responded.  Seeing the girl wasting away only made him think of Jane, eaten up by cancer but clinging to life far longer than she should have.  Her bull-headed attitude reminded him too much of Nora, rushing into the draft board offices with Nate’s conscription in hand, heedless of the consequences.  He didn’t want reminders of his girls hanging around, but she was good for Renee, at least.

     He looked up from Hephaestus and Hera at his wife.  She balanced the book of fairy tales on her knees as Lyssa leaned into her like a small child, reading out loud in her soft, lilting librarian’s voice.  She used to read to Jane and Nora that way, cuddled with them past bedtimes – food and books, that was how she showed her love for their daughter and granddaughter.  When Shaun came, she’d calm his colicky cries with Dr. Seuss and a warmed bottle.  He tried to picture it in his mind, but the memories were faded, just colors and sounds and the muscle memory, _yes, that’s what she used to do._

     Before Lyssa was thrown out of the Ninth Circle, she’d been sliding downhill – rereading the same pages of her books because she’d forgotten she’d already read them, complaining that the smell of smoothskins coming and going in Underworld gave her a headache, sleeping so deep sometimes that he was afraid she had died before he could shake her awake.

     He knew what it was.  He wasn’t going to say it out loud.  He wasn’t going to think about it.

     George closed his book and leaned back in his chair, listening to the sound of her voice.

 

**Underworld, Winter 2277**

 

     “Charon just shot Ahzrukhal,” Lyssa whispered, sliding into a chair next to Renee.  Her black eyes were wide and fearful.

     “He what?”

     “He shot him,” Lyssa repeated, “Just unloaded his shotgun into his chest.  There’s blood everywhere…”

     “Did someone else get his contract?”

     “That Vault kid they’re always mentioning on the radio,” Lyssa replied, “Apparently as soon as Charon found out he wasn’t bound to Ahzrukhal --”

     She was interrupted by the doors banging open – seemed someone was always leaving the Ninth Circle pissed off – and the Vault kid appeared at the top of the stairs.

     “Fucking shit, Charon,” he yelped, loud enough that everyone in the lobby turned to stare. “What the fuck was that about?”

     Charon replied, but his voice was too low and monotone to carry.  The Vault kid, his oversized raider armor clanking, shook his head and hurried down the steps.  His new employee trailed behind, a glimmer of satisfaction behind his stoic features.

     Renee shook her head as the two left Underworld, double doors creaking shut behind them.

     “Serves him right, I guess.”

     George glanced over, barely concealing his surprise.  Lyssa nodded in agreement.

     “You two aren’t serious.”

     Renee shrugged.  She was holding her book tight but not reading it – holding something kept the tremors manageable.

     “He wasn’t ever going to change,” Lyssa said reasonably, “Underworld is better off without him around.”

 

**Evergreen Mills, Winter 2288**

     Lyssa swallowed hard and looked around at their loot.  Laser rifles and fusion cells, stimpaks in neat plastic cases, cans of _Aqua Pura_ , all piled together, still flecked with blood.  The bodies of the Brotherhood soldiers were hanging nearby, their stench permeating the dry, cold air.  It had attracted a few feral dogs, scrawny mutts she could see skulking in the rock shadows nearby.  George was sitting in the dirt nearby, wiping blood off his face, huffing heavily.

     “Are you alright?”

     “I’m fine.”

     “Inside is clear,” Rex said, emerging from the old mill with Darla on his heels.

     “Any more of them inside?”

     “Just radroaches and old bones,” Rex answered, “Looks like this place has switched hands quite a bit.”

     “Get comfortable,” George replied, standing with the help of his old lead pipe. “We’re going to be sticking around.”

     “What do you want us to do with this?” Darla asked, gesturing to the piles of stolen supplies.

     “Whatever you like.”

     Lyssa glanced at him sideways but didn’t say anything.  He wasn’t fully on board yet, but she’d get him there.  Wouldn’t be long.


	28. Reunion

     “Get up.”

     The gate swung open, hinges squealing, as George glared down at James.  He returned the glare and struggled to stand, leaning heavily against the fence.

     “Bring them both,” George said as Lyssa and Rex appeared behind him. “Hurry up.”

     He turned and walked away, catching Rex’s dark grin out of the corner of his eye.  There was a shout of anger, muffled struggling, then the synthetic squeak of a rope tightening.  He pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit a nearby torch, hoisting it up to the others one by one.  In a few moments, the courtyard was ablaze with orange firelight, the flames casting deep shadows on the faces of the ghouls that gathered around. 

     Lyssa and Rex trailed behind, dragging their prisoners with them.  Shouts went up as they were brought forward and George sucked in a deep breath.  The air was thick with smoke and noise.  He could feel the energy, palpable like humidity, replacing the dregs of chemicals in his blood.  Lyssa was right – it was inviting, invigorating almost.  Better than the apathy that gripped him in all the places Renee had once occupied.

     “Which one first?”

     “The Vault kid.”

     Rex’s grin widened.  He uncoiled the length of rope that ended in a noose around the kid’s neck and, with one wide throw, looped it over the rusty railroad beams that crossed the courtyard.  Two ghouls from the crowd jolted forward and grabbed the end, pulling it taut.  The kid went with it, dragged through the dust kicking and flailing, his hands at the rope around his neck.  Hancock moved towards him, snarling against the rope around his own neck, but Lyssa jerked him back and shoved a knee into his back.

     “Right there,” George ordered as they hoisted the rope so he was on his knees.

     “James Hawkins,” he said, kneeling in front of him, shotgun bent over his arm.  The kid wasn’t aging well – his brown hair and stubble was overgrown, ragged, shot with traces of gray; his blue eyes were dull behind creased skin that looked sallow under his bruises.  He smelled of dirt and blood and cigarette smoke.

     “Do you like owning ghoul slaves?”

     James spat, a glob of bloody spit landing in the dirt next to George’s boot. “Fuck you.”

     George glanced over at the two ghouls holding the end of the rope and nodded.  They pulled, lifting James into the air three or four feet.  He kicked, straining against the noose as his face went blue.  George waited, counting to ten, and then nodded again. 

     “Let’s try this again,” he said as James fell with a muffled thud, “Do you like owning ghoul slaves?”

     James coughed and wheezed as the color returned to his face in a rush. “Charon…wasn’t…my slave,” he gasped out, hacking and doubled over. “He’s my…bodyguard.”  

     “The things we tell ourselves to justify what we do,” George replied, shaking his head. “What’s a kid like you need a bodyguard for?”

     James didn’t respond as he bent double into the dirt, chest heaving.  George could hear Hancock behind him, muttering a string of impressive obscenities against his noose.

     “How long was Charon…in the Ninth Circle…before you ever decided he was…some – some victim that needed saving?”

     George stared down at the vault kid, then gestured again at the ghouls.  He lifted into the air, six, seven feet, before George nodded and he was released again.  He landed hard and sprawled on the ground, spread-eagled as he gasped for air.

     “Want to run that by me again?”

     There was a long silence as James sucked in huge breaths.

     “You don’t care about Charon,” he croaked, voice rattling with the effort. “You need an outlet for your grief.”

     Anger bubbled in him, an acidic burn in the back of his throat. “What do you know about it?”  


     James coughed and rolled to one side. “I get it, man.  I know how it is.  Dad, Sarah – I know how it is.”

     Before George could formulate a response, the sharp crack of a rifle pierced the air and Rex fell, blood staining his shirt from a dark hole in his side.  Lyssa screamed and bolted towards him, falling into the dirt on her knees.  George saw Hancock lunge for James, but he snapped the shotgun closed and pointed it at him.

     “Don’t even think about it.”

     “You’re making a huge mistake,” Hancock replied, shaking his head. “A really _huge_ fucking mistake.”

     The rifle cracked again and a second ghoul fell – Danny something, he couldn’t remember exactly – amidst the chaos.

     “Find him!” George yelled as the ghouls scattered, scrambling to load weapons and grab torches. “It’s a sniper in the south, find him you fucking idiots!”

     “You don’t run towards a sniper,” James muttered, shaking his head. “You don’t run _towards_ a sniper, it’s a trap --”

     The assembled ghouls – a dozen or so in all – made for the southern edge of the camp, a rocky edifice that usually hid them well in the wasteland terrain.  There was a third rifle shot, a scream, an earsplitting bang, and Hancock swore under his breath.

     “I don’t know how she’s doing it, but she’s gonna systematically murder every single one of your cronies until she gets what she wants,” he said, brow furrowed as he looked at George.

     “My Nora?  You’ve lost your damn mind, kid,” George spat, shifting his weight with the shotgun pressed into his shoulder.

     “Suit yourself,” Hancock replied over the noise of gunfire and Lyssa’s sobbing.  George looked over at her and felt his stomach twist.  Anger, sadness, and panic warred in his gut.  He saw his girls at the edge of his vision before they disappeared suddenly, darting away in the darkness.  He took a step towards Hancock, finger over the trigger.

     “I’m sick of your fucking lies,” he said, “That is not my granddaughter out there.  My Nora was a lawyer, she’s never so much as touched a damn gun in her life --”

     He took another step forward, clutching the gun in fury.  Hancock met his gaze levelly.

     “That’s her gun,” he said, “Look on the butt of the stock.”

     George gritted his teeth.  The gunfire had stopped.

     “Put it down.”

     The voice was feminine, firm, and controlled, underwritten with intense hostility.  Hancock shook his head and George turned.  A group of three – a petite smoothskin, a tall ghoul, and a Super Mutant – had appeared on the southern edge of the courtyard.  The smoothskin lead the group, the ghoul and Super Mutant trailing behind her.  The mutant carried two of his raiders by the arms, like a child dragging teddy bears.  He wasn’t sure if they were alive or not.

     “Shoot the bitch, Deimos!” Lyssa screeched angrily, still collapsed next to Rex’s limp body.  The smoothskin turned to her, scoped rifle lifted towards her.

     “You kidnapped my friend and my partner,” she replied in that dark voice, “Tortured them.  Killed innocent people.  I will not hesitate to put a .50 straight through your fucking skull if you say one more word.”

     “Just who do you think you are?” George asked, heart thudding in his chest.  The smoothskin stood about fifty feet away, cast in shadow, eyes trained on Lyssa.  George looked her up and down and bit the inside of his cheek – Hancock _had_ to be lying.  This woman was just a mercenary of some sort – short and skinny but strong, she was dusty and grimy from wasteland wandering, worn boots laced over her calves, jeans patched and faded, gun belt soft with wear and stained dark from blood and sweat.

     She looked away from Lyssa and over at George, her expression burning with fury, then covered the distance to him in quick strides.  She didn’t lower her rifle.

     “Nora,” Hancock said behind George, “Take it easy.”

     “For the love of fuck, John, since when do we take it easy on _raiders_?”

     George felt his heart clench, breath seizing in his chest as if he’d been punched.  That voice – up close, her control slipping – that was his girl.  His Nora.

     “Nora.”

     “I think my name has been established,” she spat, “What happened to you?  How could you?”

     Gray eyes, hard with anger.  Dark red hair like her mother’s and grandmother’s, cut short as it had been the last time he ever saw her.  Slim, pretty nose and soft cheekbones, a tad sunburnt but still beautiful.

     “It can’t be you,” he said, his grip on the shotgun faltering. “How are you…?”

     “Cryostasis,” she replied shortly, “I took a shortcut to the post-apocalyptic wasteland.”

     “Deimos, you don’t actually believe this is your granddaughter, do you?” Lyssa scoffed, standing with her fists balled at her sides.  Nora’s entourage lifted guns toward her but she ignored them.

     “Here’s proof,” Nora said, not looking away from George.  She unhooked a small bag from her gun belt and threw it down in front of him.  It landed with a metallic clank.  He heard Lyssa scoff and mutter something to herself but he knelt and opened the bag anyway.

     It was her music box.

     “You gave it to me for Christmas when I was eight,” she said, “It plays Cinderella’s Waltz.”

     He opened the box, staring in shock as the contents tumbled out and the porcelain ballerina began to spin.  He glanced up and stood, dropping the shotgun, and reached for her.  His Nora, his sweet girl, somehow alive and here in front of him –

     “Don’t touch me,” she snarled, stepping back from him.  Her words stung like a harsh slap.

     “Nora, what’s wrong?”

     “What’s wrong?  What’s _wrong_?  Are you fucking kidding me?”

     George struggled to think of a response as his mind reeled with a thousand different questions.

     “Guys, I hate to interrupt your reunion,” James groaned from his place in the dirt, “But I could really use a stimpak or something.”

     Nora glanced over at him and let her rifle fall.  Her ghoul companion – Charon, George suddenly realized – swung his own gun over his shoulder and tossed Nora his bag.

     “What the hell did you do to them?” she asked, glaring at George as she dropped to her knees between James and Hancock and dug a pair of stimpaks out of the bag.  She stabbed one into James’s thigh and he swore at her; she ignored him and offered the other to Hancock.

     “I’m alright, love,” he replied, waving it away before gathering her into a hug.  George watched, dumbfounded, as she hugged him back, face buried in his shoulder.  He kissed the side of her head and she leaned back to look at him.

     “I’m ready to go home now, John.”

     “Same here.”

     “Do I even have a home to go back to?” James asked, propping himself up on one elbow. “I need the deal on Megaton because, honestly, the last forty-eight hours are really fuzzy.”

     “It’s still there,” Charon said, crossing his arms over his chest.  James nodded and sat up a little farther with a groan.

     “No offense, Nora, but can we please get the hell out of this pit?”

     “Gladly,” she answered, standing and holding out a hand for him.

     Distracted, still struggling to process everything that was happening, George didn’t see Lyssa grab the revolver from under Rex’s body.

     No one else noticed in time, either.  Hancock shouted and grabbed Nora as she aimed; the gun went off and Nora stumbled backwards, clutching a bloody hole above her hip.


	29. Clusterfuck

     James leaned over Nora, pressing a wad of dirty cloth to the bullet wound in her side with his good hand, putting his weight on her as she swore and tried to sit up.

     “I swear to – James, get off me, you bastard – let me stab that --”

     “Shush,” he replied, “You’re still bleeding.”

     “I’m going to make _you_ bleed if you don’t move your ass right now --”

     He pressed harder on the wound and she hissed in pain but stopped talking.  James glanced up and sighed.  What a monumental clusterfuck.

     The first gunshot had downed Nora easily; the second missed and embedded itself in a railway column behind her.  Before Lyssa managed to fire a third one, Charon lifted the butt of his shotgun and brought it across the back of her head, sending her sprawling.  The living raider Fawkes had been dragging struggled away and limped off into the darkness without a backwards glance; George stood rooted to the spot, looking shell-shocked as fuck and Hancock had grabbed for the spare stimpak as Nora bled all over his lap.

     When Lyssa struggled into a sitting position, he’d snatched up Nora’s shotgun and shoved it under her chin.

     “You got any last words?”

     James had been looking away at that point, keeping Nora from trying to drag herself into the fray, but when he looked back up Hancock was pointing the shotgun at George instead.

     What a monumental fucking clusterfuck.

     “Please, don’t hurt her.”

     “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

     “She’s just a kid…”

     George sagged, shoulders slumped.  For the first time, he looked like an old man, a worn-out shell in scavenged combat armor.  Lyssa, one hand at the pulpy wound on the back of her head, growled in frustration.

     “Go ahead and do it,” she spat at Hancock, “Show this spineless old man what it means to have the guts to get things done.”

     James winced internally.  Even in the spotty lighting, he could see the hurt on George’s face, the utter dejection as Lyssa glared at him, shoving him and his pleas for her sake away.  Fucking hell, but it made him think of Amata – _You need to leave._

     Hancock didn’t reply or move from his tense spot facing George.  Silence fell as they stood staring at each other.  Charon glanced at James questioningly and Fawkes stood apart from the rest, looking disappointed and tired.

     After what felt like an eternity, Hancock took a step back from George and let his grip on the shotgun loosen. 

     “No.”

     George stared, eyes wide. “What?”

     Hancock turned the shotgun to Lyssa. “Get the fuck outta here,” he said, “You’ve got thirty seconds to disappear before I change my fucking mind.”

     He looked back at George. “You can either go with her or go with us.”

     Nora propped herself up on her elbows and took a shuddering breath. “He can?”

     Hancock met her gaze and nodded. “You didn’t shoot Guy,” he said, “And there’s a ten-year-old in the Commonwealth who is expecting to meet his grandpa soon.”

 

     Sturges had started to nod off, schematic diagrams scattered on the coffee table at his knees, when a small hand tapped his shoulder.  He jumped and glanced around to find Shaun waiting patiently at his side, a book clutched to his chest.

     “Geez, kid, you scared me.”

     “Sorry,” he said quickly, then thrust the book at him. “If we fixed a vertibird, do you think you could fly it?”

     “Do what now?”

     Shaun gestured to the book.  Sturges rubbed his eyes and squinted to see the title in the waning lantern light.  _Emergency Aviation Training for U.S. Army Field Officers._ It wasn’t a large book, only a hundred pages or so; Sturges let it fall open on his lap to a diagram of a prewar vertibird.

     “Where’d you get this?”

     Shaun flopped onto the couch next to him. “In the cellar,” he replied, “It was in a duffel bag of old stuff from before the war.  I think it was my dad’s.”

     Sturges nodded, flipping the pages slowly.  He vaguely remembered Nora saying that her husband had been an Army officer, but she didn’t talk about it often enough for him to do much more than guess.

     “It’s interesting,” he said after a moment, “But the problem is, we don’t have a vertibird to learn how to fly.”

     “We might be able to find one.”

     “That’s not something people usually leave lying around like toasters and typewriters.”

     “At the airport,” Shaun continued, “When the Brotherhood left, Mom and Preston went down to the airport where they had their base.  I heard her telling Hancock when she got back that they’d left behind an old vertibird.  It was messed up or something.  If we could fix it…”

     “We could learn how to fly it with this,” Sturges concluded.  Shaun nodded vigorously.

     “What do we need a vertibird for, though?”

     “Anytime someone needs help and Mom leaves, she’s gone for at least a week,” Shaun said, “She has to walk there and sometimes fight things on the way.  She doesn’t always make it in time.”

     Sturges nodded as the little boy traced a control panel diagram with one finger. “A vertibird that uses fusion cores can travel almost 100 miles in an hour,” Shaun recited, looking up at him. “That fast, Mom could go all the way to Somerville and come back in just one day.  She’d be safe from stuff on the ground.  She wouldn’t be away so much but she could still help people.”

     Sturges could hear the sadness in the kid’s voice but wasn’t sure how to respond. “That’s a really good idea, Shaun,” he said at last, closing the book. “I’ll talk to Preston about it in the morning.”

     “I want to go with you,” Shaun said firmly, “I want to help fix it.  I want to have it fixed before Mom and Hancock get back from the Capital.”

     “That…might not be possible.”

     “I want to try, at least.”

     “You know your mom would have my head on a pike if I took you out into the Commonwealth and you got hurt.”

     “Then I won’t get hurt,” Shaun replied reasonably, “I didn’t when she brought me home all the way from the Castle.”

     Sturges took a deep breath and shook his head.  He wasn’t wrong, but during that particular excursion – after blowing the Institute sky high – he had been in the company of his mother and a decent chunk of her entourage, and there had been plenty of problems she’d kept well-hidden from him.

     “I’ll plead your case to Preston,” he said, closing the book. “No guarantees.”

     “I’ll convince Codsworth,” Shaun agreed, “If he thinks I’ll be safe, he can convince Preston.”

     “Don’t convince him by changing his programming.”

     Shaun cocked his head. “I can change his programming?”

     Sturges swore under his breath and patted Shaun’s shoulder. “Go on to bed, kid.  We’ll take a look at this in the morning.”

 

     “This is a _brilliant_ idea.”

     Shaun grinned and high-fived Sturges. “Can we leave tomorrow?”

     “We?”

     “I want to help fix it,” Shaun said, “It was my idea, and I know how to read circuit diagrams and use the welding torch --”

     Preston sighed. “Shaun, the airport is unsecured,” he said, “And just getting there means going through a lot of the ruins.  It’s dangerous for adults, much less kids.”

     “We can take the long way,” Shaun replied, pointing to the large map of the Commonwealth tacked to the wall.  Preston and Nora had put it up back when the Minutemen consisted of just them, marking their settlements with salvaged pins and making notes in pencil of hotspots, raider hang-outs, and anything else they needed to remember.  Shaun walked over and pointed to the large gold pin that designated Sanctuary Hills.

     “We start at Sanctuary and then go to Starlight,” he said, “Then we’ll take the caravan roads over to Covenant or Taffington, since the Minutemen control that whole area.  After that, we can go south to Bunker Hill.  They like Mom and Hancock there, so it’ll be safe.  Then we can go to Goodneighbor, and then it’s just a really short trip through the city to the airport.”

     Preston glanced at Sturges, eyebrows raised.  Sturges shrugged and held his hands up.

     “Kid’s smart.  I didn’t coach him.”

     Preston nodded as Shaun beamed at them. “I can even shoot a gun,” he said, “Hancock was teaching me before they left.  The airport’s right by the Castle, so if anybody attacked, help would be really close by.”

     Sturges gave Preston a look.  Preston sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck.  His muscles were tense, rock-solid with stress and exhaustion.  The vertibird was a fantastic idea and Shaun was a smart, level kid and Sturges’s best student.  It only made sense to let him help with this project. 

     But the last thing he wanted was to expose the kid to the wasteland’s dangers.

     “I can get the Castle on the radio, have ‘em send a couple guys over to clear out the airport,” Sturges said, “See if there’s anyone who can spare some time to stay with us.”

     Preston hesitated a moment and then nodded. “I’ll think about it tonight,” he said, “That’s not a promise.”

     Shaun grinned. “Thank you, Mr. Garvey!”

     He threw his arms around him and squeezed.  Preston hugged back briefly before he let go and darted out the door.

     “We can bring Dogmeat, he’ll smell any raiders before they see us,” he informed them, leaning back in momentarily.

     “I didn’t say yes yet,” Preston replied, but Shaun was gone again, calling loudly for his shepherd.

     Sturges grinned and stuck the aviation book under his arm. “I’ll go get the radio fired up.  Relax a little, Preston.”

     “You know I don’t do that.”

     Sturges nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. “Try.”

     Preston sat back down at the conference table, still rubbing at the tense spot in his neck.  Since the raider attack, things around Sanctuary had been quiet.  Settlements were sending in normal reports, crops were coming in with the spring rain, and nothing of interest was happening.  He wanted to think they’d nipped some idiotic plot in the bud, but he also knew that was probably asking too much.  The other shoe had to drop sometime.

     His depressed musing was interrupted by a short knock.  Preston glanced up to see Nick Valentine standing in the doorway.

     “Nick,” he said, standing and shaking the synth’s mechanical hand. “Good to see you again.”

     “You, too, Garvey,” Nick replied, “Heard you were planning a trip south for a vertibird.”

     “Sturges is gossiping already?”

     “No, Shaun stopped me at the gate to tell me all about it,” Nick said, sitting and pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Said he’s going to take Dogmeat and his blowtorch.  Odd combination, but I guess they could be helpful.”

     “I told him I’d think about it,” Preston answered, shaking his head. “What brings you around here?”

     “Got a weird letter a while back,” the synth answered, offering Preston a cigarette before he reached into another pocket. “Courier brought it in.  Didn’t know who it was from, just some scavver who paid him a bag of caps to put it in my hands.”

     He extracted a grimy bit of paper and handed it over to Preston.  He unfolded it, frowning, and read: _fox in the hen house._

     Below the word “fox” was a strange drawing, a man with outstretched arms inside a circle.  It looked familiar, but Preston couldn’t place it.

     “The Institute,” Nick supplied, “That was their emblem.”

     “The Institute?”

     “Yep,” Nick replied, “When the courier dropped off the letter, he said the scavver caught up to him pretty near the Castle.  You guys have some sort of problem?”

     “Raider attack,” Preston answered, frowning deeper.  He related the recent events, the raiders scoping the place and the attacks they’d intercepted at Oberland Station and Finch Farm.

     “Maybe someone’s trying to mole their way in,” Nick said, moving his cigarette around in his mouth. “Had anybody new join the ranks?”

     “Lots,” Preston admitted, “Lot of growth after word got around about what happened with the Institute.  But we haven’t heard anything about survivors, and we made sure to take out every last inch of the compound.”

     Nick nodded as Preston reread the note a few times. “Why would they send it to you?” he asked, “I mean, no offense – I like you, Nora likes you, but you’re not a Minuteman.”

     “At first I thought the hen house meant the Railroad,” Nick replied, “Did a little scoping of my own, but nothing out of the ordinary there.  I’m only guessing this mysterious informant meant the Minutemen.”

     Preston sighed.  If there was indeed someone trying to get into the ranks of the Minutemen unscrupulously, he suddenly had a huge problem on his hands.

     “Might be a good time to check in at the Castle,” Nick said, “Get that vertibird up and running. Remind whoever’s out there that the Minutemen are a big damn deal now.”

     “Shaun’s going to hate me for not letting him go…”

     “Nonsense,” Nick said, “I’ll take him down.  You go take care of things at the Castle and I’ll lend a hand with this construction project.”

     “What about the agency?”

     Nick shrugged. “Someone sends me a weird letter, I’m going to check it out,” he said, “Far as I’m concerned, this is my case, too.”


	30. Decisions

     He’d fully intended to blow the bitch’s brains out.  One shotgun shell straight through her skull, the satisfying splatter of blood and brains to put an end to the fucking lunacy and calm the fury he felt every time he looked over at Nora bleeding on the ground.

     He wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t; he just knew that Lyssa was up to something.  George may have been the figurehead, the leader everyone saw, but he could tell she was pulling the strings.  She was manipulating George in one way or another – poking, prodding sore spots, kicking and then stroking his ego, playing games to get what she wanted.  The last damn thing he wanted was to be some stupid piece on the chessboard, to borrow one of Fahrenheit’s metaphors.

     Besides, wasn’t like he could go back to the Commonwealth with that hanging over his head.  _Sorry, Shaun, I shot your grandfather in the chest_ would probably make shit awkward around Sanctuary for a long time. 

     So, he watched the bitch limp away into the darkness like a chastised mongrel and ignored George’s dejected, pleading glances.  Being the bigger person, as Nora said often, fucking blew but he’d do it for that kid if no one else.

     “Hold still, love,” he said, pressing the forceps deeper into Nora’s wound, searching for the little hunk of metal.  Her ballistic weave shirt had worn out, slowing the bullet down but not stopping it like usual.

     Nora flinched and swore. “You don’t _have_ to pull it out.”

     “It’s lead, you want to be poisoned?”

     She glared at him but didn’t say anything.  She was the worst about wiggling and fidgeting during any procedure; Hancock leaned his weight against her hips and dug deeper.

     “There,” he announced as he felt the forceps bump something hard.  Nora screwed up her face and let out a string of expletives as he grasped and pulled, fishing out the bullet.  Fresh blood leaked from her wound as he pressed a cloth over it and reached for a stimpak.

     “Are you alright, sweetheart?”

     Nora didn’t look over at her grandfather. “I’m fine,” she snapped, “I’ve been shot once before.”

     “What, only once?” James asked, looking perplexed as he dug through the raided supplies.

     “I try not to make a habit of getting in front of guns other people are holding.”

     Hancock took the gauze and duct tape that James offered and slapped it onto Nora’s side before wiping away the last remnants of blood.  She gave him a grateful smile as he helped her sit up, wincing a little and yanking her bloody shirt back into place.

     “Are you okay to move on?”

     “I am, but you ain’t,” he said, brow furrowed. “You need to rest for a bit.”

     “I don’t want to rest, I want to go home.”

     “So do I, but if you move around too much with that hole in your side, it’s gonna keep bleeding,” he said, “Or get infected, or both.  When was the last time you slept?”

     “I’m fine, John,” she replied, “I really don’t want to spend the night here.”

     “Nora, please --”

     The rest of his sentence was drowned out by a loud crack of thunder as the skies opened up and fat, cold raindrops began to fall.

     “I guess that solves that debate,” James quipped, glaring up at the darkness overhead. “Can’t catch a damn break.”

     “It’s dry inside,” George piped up, still standing on the periphery of the group. “Plenty of supplies.”

     Nora gave a deep sigh of aggravation but didn’t argue, struggling to her feet and snatching up her shotgun.  George glanced at Hancock but he ignored him and followed Nora inside, their companions on his heels.

 

     “What happened to Grandma?”

     George jumped, heart in his throat.  He hadn’t heard Nora approach, lost in his own thoughts.  He looked up at her and sighed.

     “She was murdered,” he said after a moment.  His throat was dry and raw.

     “By Brotherhood soldiers?”

     George nodded. “I…I took her to an old metro station…”

     “You let her hang on after going feral.”

     “She was my wife, sweetheart,” George replied, “Two and a half centuries…I couldn’t…”

     “She deserved better than wandering underground like an animal,” Nora said, crossing her arms over her chest. “You didn’t want me to keep Mom on a ventilator, but you let Grandma hang on for a decade as a _feral_?”

     George looked away.  She was right, of course, but…

     “Would you have been able to put the bullet between her eyes?”

     It was harsher than he intended, but Nora didn’t flinch from him. “I’d have found a way.”

     He knew she would have, too.  Nora had made life and death decisions long before the world ended; she had an old soul and a strength uncommon in someone so young.

     “I don’t want to fight, sweetheart,” he said before she could turn away from him, “I’ve made my decisions and I stand by them.”

     She stared at him for a moment, her expression hard, and then shook her head.

     “What happened to Nate?”

     He didn’t want to discuss the dead all night, but he had to know.  Nate had been the son he’d never had, fixture in the family since he and Nora had been awkward teenagers.  Where was her self-proclaimed better half?

     “He was murdered,” Nora said after a tense moment, “The Institute kidnapped Shaun and they shot Nate in the process.”

     George gaped, feeling as if someone had punched him.  Rumors about the Institute’s destruction had been trickling down with the caravans for months – the shadow organization bombed into oblivion by the Minutemen, synths freed and the Commonwealth liberated with the tough-as-nails general at the helm –

    “Yes, I lead the Minutemen,” Nora answered, as if she had read his mind.  George looked his granddaughter up and down, still reeling at all the new information.  His granddaughter was alive and well, as young as the day the bombs dropped.  Nate was gone and she’d replaced him with a strange, chain-smoking ghoul.  The girl who had made him kill spiders for her once upon a time – back when they were smaller than caps – was now at the head of an army.

     “Sounds like you’ve got a lot of stories to tell,” he managed at last, taking a deep breath to steady the tidal wave of questions in his head.

     “No, I don’t,” Nora replied, “Want to tell them, that is.”

 

     James tried to flex his hand and bit the inside of his lip as pain streaked through it all the way to his elbow.  The swelling had gone down and the bruising was starting to fade, but he couldn’t seem to move his fingers properly or ease the pain.

     “Looks like it healed improperly,” Fawkes supplied helpfully, peering at him in the low light of their lanterns. “Did you reset the bones before using a stimpak?”

     “No, I was kind of…distracted,” he answered, glancing over at the old man in the far corner. “So, what?  I’m stuck with this useless flipper now?”

     “Of course not,” Fawkes declared, “In fact, with all these supplies, I can probably fix it for you tonight.  Usually it’s a simple matter of realigning bones that have healed crooked or twisted by breaking them again --”

     “You are not performing orthopedic surgery on him,” Charon interrupted, glaring with a rare bit of protectiveness as James blanched.

     “The longer he goes without proper treatment and physical therapy --”

     “The clinic in Rivet City can do it,” Charon snapped, “In a _sterile_ environment with anesthesia and a surgeon that has fine motor skills.”

     Fawkes huffed grumpily but didn’t argue.  The room fell quiet, the only sound the bubble of whatever stew Charon had thrown together for them.  James snuck a glance over at his bodyguard and then looked away before he’d noticed.  He had been certain the old guy was dead, felled at last by raiders, and immensely relieved when he’d turned up with Nora and Fawkes.  Thinking of the world without Charon made him… _sad_.  It wasn’t the aching grief for his dad or Sarah, or the homesickness for Vault 101, but after eleven years, he wasn’t sure he knew what to do without Charon around to tell him it was a bad idea.

     He was certain the ghoul himself didn’t really care either way.  Semantics aside, he basically _was_ a slave, brainwashed and conditioned to stick with his employer until formally released.  Truth be told, he’d always taken advantage of that fact, doing dumb shit and acting like an ass because Charon couldn’t do jack beyond complain occasionally.  Charon was his safety net as he employed every kind of unhealthy coping mechanism he could think of.

     Five minutes later and he’d have been rid of him forever, on to Nora who was an infinitely better person in pretty much every aspect.

     He should formally give her Charon’s contract, he thought as the old ghoul passed him a can of water without looking at him. 

     But, of course, that wouldn’t absolve him.  That’d just be shifting his guilt around, a shitty absolution for all the shitty things he’d done and said over the years.

     Wasn’t like he _wanted_ to wander around without him.  He was a grumpy asshole, but he was Charon.

     James sighed and picked up a fork from the pile of dishes in front of him.  This was going to backfire horribly, but it was all he could think of.

     “Hey, Charon,” he said, gripping the fork in his left hand. 

     “Hmm?”

     James leaned forward across the table and jammed the fork hard into the back of Charon’s hand.

     Charon roared in pain and jumped up, knocking into the table.  Fawkes gaped and Nora, standing at the stove, swore and dropped the plates she’d been holding.

     “What the fuck is wrong with you?” she yelled, staring wide-eyed at James as Charon yanked the fork out of his hand.  It clattered to the floor, streaked with blood.

     “Physical violence invalidates the contract,” James said, looking steadily at Charon.  His heart was thudding, knowing that now Charon could kill him now with barely a flick of his wrist.

     “The fuck is going on?”

     Hancock joined them in the makeshift kitchen and Nora stared as if James had lost his mind.  George was glaring at him from the corner, hands balled into fists.

     Charon stared back at him, mouth open a little.

     “You could have just asked,” he said after a moment, flopping back into his seat. “Do you have a stimpak?”

     “Um, guys…”

     “That’s not how it works,” James replied, reaching into the bag at his feet. “I had to be certain.”

     “I might have shot you.”

     “I know that.”

     Charon met his gaze and James knew he understood.  He nodded and took the stimpak.  The rest of the group stared and exchanged glances.

     “Physical violence could very well have meant a paper cut or gentle punch,” Charon continued as the tiny stab wounds in his hand began to close. “You didn’t have to _stab_ me with a fucking _fork._ ”

     “You’re really going to complain now?” James asked, “I just released you.”

     “Yes, I’m going to complain, because you just _stabbed me with a fork._ ”

     “I’d rather you shot me.”

     “I haven’t ruled it out yet.”

     “Can one of you explain what the hell is going on, please?” Nora interrupted.  James looked up and shrugged.

     “Contract negotiations.”

     “The contract is invalid; it can’t be negotiated any longer,” Charon replied, glaring at him. “This is simple logic, even you should be able to understand.”

     “It’s a figure of speech.”

     “It’s not a figure of speech, it’s gross misinterpretation.”

     “You were a lawyer, Nora,” James said, “Which is it?”

     “What are you even talking about?”

     Charon stood again. “I’m going to bed,” he said, “We’re leaving first thing in the morning.”

     “Invalidating the contract doesn’t mean now you get to boss me around.”

     “I can and will because you were obviously deprived of oxygen for too long.”

     “You’re such an asshole, I don’t know why I bothered.”

     “Eat and go to sleep.  And shut up.”


	31. Secondary

     Although he’d said otherwise, the weird gardener who’d forced Deacon into a cage did feed him, at least when he felt like it.  He stayed awake as often as he could, wanting to figure out as much as he could about his captor, but he inevitably fell asleep and usually woke just as he slid can of water and some Cram or Pork n’ Beans inside and slammed the door shut again.  Nothing much, and certainly nothing fresh, but he’d survived for longer on less.

     What _was_ starting to get him was the sheer boredom of being stuck in his miniature prison.  He’d tried talking to his captor but rarely got an answer beyond “shut up.”  He’d walked circles around the cage, counted ants crawling across the concrete floor, tried to break the lock at every opportunity.  He had resorted to a drum solo with the old cans but gotten his fork taken away at gunpoint, so now he had nothing to keep him from slipping slowly into madness.

     Traveling with Nora had ruined him; nowadays he was constantly craving the sort of adrenaline-laced adventures they usually went on together.  He got bored too easily and his current captivity was proof of that.

     He had been lying on his mattress, staring at the ceiling and trying to recite as much of Proust as he could, when the other guy showed up.  His kidnapper had seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be a lone wolf, absorbed in his daily plant-related rituals, cleaning, and reading, paying Deacon and any of the outside world little mind.  He disappeared one morning, as he tended to do, and returned followed by an older, harder-looking man, a one-eyed wastelander dressed in ragged military fatigues.  He was carrying a large tato sack over his shoulder, which he plunked down on the kidnapper’s worktable.  Something metal inside clanked.

     “I could only get three,” he said, as Deacon’s captor opened the sack and grinned in satisfaction.  He pulled out the contents, three slender metal canisters, and set them carefully on the worktable.

     “If they’re as strong as you say, three should be plenty.”

     “When is this happening?”

     “Soon.”

     “You’ve been saying ‘soon’ for three months, Clayton.”

     Clayton scowled at him. “Now that we’ve got these, it won’t be long,” he replied, jerking his head at the canister. “She’s not even in the Commonwealth right now, so it’d do no good to grab the guy now.”

     “We could have done it _before_ she left.”

     “We didn’t have the resources,” Clayton snapped, “Quit complaining.”

     The wastelander returned his scowl but didn’t reply as Clayton picked up a canister to inspect it, eyes roving over the room and settling on Deacon.

     “Who’s this?”

     He crossed to the cage peered down on Deacon like he was some interesting zoo exhibit.

     “Says he’s a scavver,” Clayton replied, “But he’s been following me.  I think he’s one of hers.”

     “Got quite a collection, doesn’t she?”

     “I’m nobody,” Deacon replied with a shrug, “Just a stupid sap he seems to think has some agenda.  Honestly, I think the guy’s a little paranoid – you might want to be careful working with him.”

     The one-eyed man smirked mirthlessly at him. “Never hurts to have extra leverage,” he said, turning back to Clayton. “She won’t leave anyone behind, friend or stranger.”

     Deacon leaned back against the wall and sighed.  Something was going down and he had no way to warn anyone about it.

     He was useless.

 

     “Do you take houses as payment?”

     James slapped a small, tarnished key onto the counter and Moira quirked an eyebrow at him.

     “I don’t need it anymore,” James continued, shrugging. “I’m not staying in Megaton.”

     “Oh, no!” Moira exclaimed, her face falling. “But you just got back!”

     “Yeah, I should’ve stayed gone,” James replied, “Please, take it.  Sell it, live in it, whatever you want.”

     “Where will you be heading off to?”

     “North again, I think,” James replied, “Got some old friends I need to reconnect with.”

     “Well, here, take these extra supplies,” Moira replied, bending behind the counter and grabbing a crate.  She set it roughly in front of him; it was filled to bursting with stimpaks, boxes of ammunition, and other assorted necessities.

     “Thanks, Moira,” James said, once he’d stuffed as much as he could into his bag. “For everything.”

     “Don’t forget to visit us again sometime,” she said, smiling beatifically. “You will, won’t you?”

     “Maybe,” he lied, returning her smile as best he could. “If I’m ever in the area again, I’ll stop in.”

     He breathed a sigh of relief as he left, Nora joining him at the door with her own bag dangling loosely from one shoulder.  It had been another spur-of-the-moment decision, but for once it was a decision he felt good about.  He was tired of living in the shadow of Vault 101, of the Brotherhood, of his father’s work and his memories of Sarah.  Leaving the key to his Megaton home with Moira made him feel lighter, as if it had weighed a hundred pounds.

     “You ever think about leaving the Commonwealth?” he asked Nora as they made their way towards the gates.  She smiled but shook her head vigorously.

     “Not a chance,” she said, “I was born and raised in Boston.  Watched it get bombed into nuclear oblivion.  Almost died a bunch of times there.  It’s home.”

     “Even with all the shit you’ve been through?”

     She shrugged. “Take the good with the bad.  You heading for Railroad HQ?”

     “Figured I’d see if they need an extra hand.”

     “Glory would certainly appreciate the help,” Nora said, “She’s the only heavy besides myself and there were some problems with a synth-hating raider gang recently…”

     “Always with the fucking raiders, isn’t it?”

     “Always,” Nora agreed, her expression sobering as they crossed out of the city limits, past the mangled gates and into the wasteland.  James thought about looking back but decided against it.  He needed a clean break, not a bunch of second guesses.

     Per the town’s brand-new “no ghouls” policy, Charon, Hancock, and George were waiting for them outside, well out of glaring distance of the guards Simms had posted.  Hancock was dressed in his old red coat again, despite Nora’s protests, leaning against a rock and twirling his small whittling knife in one hand.

     “My dad used to tell me I’d lose a toe doing that,” James said by way of greeting.  Hancock smirked at him.

     “So did mine,” he replied, “Didn’t listen.  Good motivation to get the trick right.”

     “If we leave now, we may be able to catch up with Fawkes before nightfall,” Charon interrupted, jerking his head in the direction of the city ruins.  The mutant had opted to keep moving when they reached Megaton, taking advantage of roads that weren’t yet clogged with Brotherhood patrols.

     “Sounds good to me,” Nora agreed, shifting her bag onto both shoulders. “No offense, but I’m ready to get the hell out of here and back home.”

     James thought about adding, _Yeah, where you probably_ aren’t _related to the raiders_ , but kept his mouth closed as the group began walking.  Charon took point, Nora and Hancock followed side-by-side, and James stayed off to the side a little.  He glanced back at George once, trailing the group like a dog hoping for a handout, and sighed to himself.  He wanted to be mad at the old man, angry for kidnapping him, letting his cronies beat the shit out of him…but he was simply too tired to care.  Nora’s rescue – and whatever she had said to him privately afterwards – had stripped away the guy’s façade, burst the bubble he’d been encased in.  James could only muster pity for him now.

     “Keep daydreaming if you’ve got a death wish,” Hancock yelled at him.  James looked up and around, realizing he’d started to meander away from them into open wasteland.  He shook himself and jogged to catch up.

     “I’ll definitely have to let Charon stick with you,” Nora sniggered at him, “Don’t want it on my conscience that I took your bodyguard away and you moseyed off into a Deathclaw nest not paying attention.”

     “I haven’t done that in years…”

 

     It wasn’t hard to trail the group, even with the catastrophic headache she had.  A group of five and a Super Mutant left a lot of tracks, enough that she could stay a mile or so behind and not arouse suspicion.  She had nothing with her but a knife, a small, rusty weapon she’d picked off a skeleton outside Evergreen Mills, but she’d make it work.

     George was supposed to be the one that understood her, understood how things were in the Wasteland.  Take or be taken from.  Get your revenge when and where you could.  None of them had asked to be made into freaks, none of them had turned the world into an irradiated shithole – why did they have to pay the price?  Why bow to assholes in fancy tin armor?  Why hide in a crumbling old museum when they had every right to live free, too?

     Why give in when they murdered the closest thing she’d ever had to a decent mother?

     She thought _he_ got it.  She wasn’t particularly interested in the blood and torture and elaborate revenge schemes, but the details didn’t matter.  He’d finally helped her get what she was owed, only to turn his back on it all when some relic from the long-dead past turned up again.

     It wasn’t fair.  She had been there for years, caring for Renee as she slipped away.  Keeping him alive when they left Underworld, keeping him on track and feeling something besides numbness.

     But she’d only been secondary to what he really loved.

     _Bastard._

     She gripped the duct-taped handle of her knife and quickened her pace, the sun at her back and the city ahead.


	32. Contracts and Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another bloody, violent chapter. Enjoy.

     George looked up from his drink to glance surreptitiously at Nora.  He had been watching her all day, unable to quite get a handle on himself and all the questions still chasing each other around his brain.  She wouldn’t talk to him besides basic pleasantries and necessities, but it wasn’t like they had much privacy, anyway.  They’d made it halfway to Underworld before having to stop for the night, making camp in an old metro tunnel blessedly clear of anything but a few radroaches.  It was dark in the tunnel, light from Nora and James’s Pip-Boys casting green shadows on the concrete to compete with the pale yellow of a single oil lantern. 

     “…my contract technically belongs to you now,” he heard Charon saying.  George sat up a little straighter and frowned.

     “I thought it was invalidated,” Nora replied, “Physical violence or whatever.”

     “Invalidated with him,” Charon clarified, jerking his head at James. “I’m not…”

     He trailed off and Nora nodded knowingly. “It shouldn’t be valid in the first place,” she said, “Legally speaking, a _contract_ is only binding when both parties consent, without duress or fear of retaliation.  I think your conditioning effectively falls under the definition of ‘duress’.”

     “The conditioning took place after the contract was created.”

     “Doesn’t really matter _when_ it happened,” Nora answered with a shrug, “If someone is doing illegal things to enforce a contract, it’s null.  I can’t sign a trade agreement with one of my settlements and then go in and abuse them --”

     “I consented,” Charon interrupted.  Heavy silence fell.  Nora stared and George looked between them, surprised.  James was gaping open-mouthed at the ghoul, Hancock shook his head and Fawkes seemed suddenly very interested in his hands.

     “To the conditioning?” Nora asked and Charon nodded.  She also nodded and was silent for a moment.

     “Well, there’s still the fact that a contract needs to be enforceable by law,” she said, “The United States and the Marine Corps don’t exactly exist anymore, so any contract you’d have with them wouldn’t exist either.  And there isn’t anyone to punish you for not obeying…”

     “I don’t think that matters to the conditioning, Sunshine,” Hancock replied gently, “Kind of the point of the whole thing.”

     She sighed and shook her head. “Things like this make me _glad_ that Nate got his leg blown off at Anchorage, before they got their hooks too far into him,” she said, “You can’t possibly have given truly informed consent to lifelong conditioning, especially when radiation then went and prolonged your life well beyond average.”

     “What was the intention?” James asked curiously, “I mean, I get what’s convenient about having deathly loyal soldiers, but why not just…robots?  Or cyborgs, if you need them to blend into society or something…”

     A dark shadow passed over Nora’s face but she didn’t say anything.  George noticed Hancock squeeze her hand and pull her a little closer, seated between his knees across from James.

     “I don’t know,” Charon admitted, “It was a psychological experiment of some sort.  I was only one of three to survive the conditioning.”

     “Didn’t you know that prewar, the world was run by evil geniuses?” Fawkes piped up, smiling sardonically at James. “I think we freaks – and Nora – are proof of that.”

     “Well, yeah,” he replied, “But… _why_?  What did they need cryogenics for?  Or FEV? Or super soldiers…”

     “Money,” George answered, “Knowledge.  Power.  Progress to improve mankind.  Take your pick.”

     Five pairs of eyes turned to him in the low light.  He hesitated, afraid he’d butted in where he wasn’t welcome, and then Hancock nodded at him.

     “Because they fuckin’ could,” he added, “Sometimes that’s all the encouragement people need to take advantage of someone.”

     “Well, at least it blew up in their faces, right?” James said, smiling and grabbing a scavenged bottle of beer from a pile nearby. “Literally.”

     “And you destroyed the hangers-on,” Fawkes added, rumbling a low laugh.  James shrugged and popped the cap on his bottle.

     “Wasn’t me,” he replied, “It was Charon covering my ass, and Sarah being brilliant, and a really big Tesla cannon.”

     “Gotta tell me that story sometime,” Nora said, “Especially the part about a Brotherhood Sentinel helping the Railroad.”

     “I’ll tell you that story when you tell us about the Institute,” James shot back.  Nora’s eyes narrowed for a second and then she smiled at him.

     “You ever heard of a Chinese finger trap?”

     “A what?”

     “The harder you try to pull out of it, the tighter it gets.”

     James stared in confusion.  George looked at his granddaughter again and didn’t miss the quiet anger behind her neutral expression.  The prelude to an explosion, like a cat’s warning hiss before it unleashed claws and teeth.

     Hancock apparently didn’t miss it, either. “Should get some sleep,” he said, rubbing Nora’s shoulders. “Gettin’ late.”

     “Who’s going to take first watch?”

     “I’ll do it,” George said, standing.  May as well do whatever he could to ingratiate himself to his new companions.  Nora met his eyes briefly and then they both looked away.

     “I volunteer for second,” Charon replied, “If that’s okay with you, Nora.”

     She shrugged as she pounded her canvas rucksack into a lumpy pillow. “Not like I need you standing guard over me while I sleep.”

     “I kind of expected a _general_ to be a bit bossier,” James remarked, tossing back the last of his beer as he squirmed into his sleeping bag.

     “Join the Minutemen and you’ll see bossy,” Hancock replied with a smirk.  Nora returned it, leaned back into her bag.  George smiled to himself as he stood, glimpsing his old Nora briefly in that smile.  A canteen on his belt and rifle at hand, he walked to the tunnel opening and sat, the group’s voices drifting down to him for a few more minutes before finally fading into sleepy silence.

 

     George wasn't sure how much time passed before Hancock appeared by his post at the end of the tunnel, but it wasn’t long.  He didn’t say anything at first, leaning against the concrete wall and lighting a cigarette with a quick flick of his lighter.  The smell of stale smoke filled the space between them.

     “The Shaun you’re expecting to see isn’t the one you remember,” he said finally, voice quiet in the darkness.  George looked over as the red tip of his cigarette illuminated the man’s face.

     “What do you mean?”

     “He’s a synth,” Hancock said, “A ten-year-old synth created by the Institute.”

     George sat there, staring into the dark, unable to process what Hancock was saying.  The only synths he knew were the plastic ones, the mindless robots that popped up in odd places around the Commonwealth and spoke in strange electronic voices.  He’d heard rumors about the human-looking ones, been in Diamond City the day one supposedly lost its mind – but how was his grandson one?

     “How is he…”

     “What’d Nora tell you so far?”

     “Shaun was kidnapped by the Institute and they killed Nate.  That’s all she’d say.”

     There was a pause as Hancock drew on his cigarette and blew out a slow puff of smoke. “That’s usually what she says.”

     “But there’s more to it.”

     Hancock let out a short, jaded chuckle. “A lot more.”

     George waited in silence as he worked the cigarette down to a stub, then lit another.  As it burned down, Hancock began speaking, relating Nora’s story in bare-bones detail, detached and almost emotionless.  George listened without commenting, his heart breaking open at all the horror his dear girl had endured in such a short time.  Another silence fell when Hancock finished and he took a deep breath against the pain behind his breastbone.

     He’d been there, a few days travel away, while his family waited, suspended in time underground.  When that young, happy family he’d loved was ripped apart and destroyed, he’d been in Quincy, whiling away yet another year.  It felt like God was laughing at him.

     “I went with her into the Glowing Sea,” Hancock said, tearing George away from his thoughts abruptly. “Got together a little while after.”

     “What a touching story.”

     George jumped and lifted his rifle, swinging it around as he searched for the source of the voice.

     _Lyssa_.

     She shuffled out of the darkness, clutching a knife in both hands.  She looked much worse for wear, blood crusted in rivulets down the side and back of her head, hands shaking, pale eyes rheumy and bloodshot.  Her clothing was dusty and torn and she was glaring at him with a face full of hatred.

     “What are you doing, Lyssa?”

     “You…you promised me,” she said, stepping forward shakily.  Hancock edged towards him, hand on the handle of his own knife, tucked into his belt.

     “You _promised_ ,” Lyssa repeated, “You were going to help me.”

     George wasn’t sure what to say.  He had promised her.

     “I knew lettin’ you go was a bad idea,” Hancock hissed, stepping forward as he pulled his knife from his belt.  George wanted to step in front of him again, but he felt frozen to the spot. 

     “Don’t you fucking touch me,” Lyssa snapped, turning her knife towards Hancock.  He ignored her, grabbing for her wrist.  She slashed out wildly, narrowly missing him, her movements clumsy and uncoordinated.

     “I trusted you!” she screeched, turning on George.  The knife swung in a large arc and caught him in the shoulder, slicing through clothing and flesh with an unholy burn.  He yelled in pain and dropped his rifle, clutching his bleeding shoulder.  She was on him in a second, her small body thudding into his with the force of her rage.  He tumbled backwards, grappling with her as she attempted to jam the knife into his chest.  She was screaming and spitting, incoherent words tumbling from her mouth like a feral.  Like Renee, but Lyssa knew what she was doing – she was trying to kill him.

     For half a second he thought about letting her go, letting her sink the knife straight into his heart, but then she stiffened and went silent before slumping over.  Hancock’s knife stuck out of her back at an angle.

     George gaped as she rolled off him onto the ground, gasping for air.  Her breath rattled and shook her small body as blood dripped from the corner of her mouth.  Hancock’s knife had pierced her lung; even with a couple of stimpaks, she’d be gone soon.

     “What the fuck?”

     Nora knelt in front of him, placing her hands firmly over the slash on his shoulder.  Lyssa coughed and went still, her eyes glassy.  George looked away.

     “Are you alright?”

     Nora looked down at him and he sat up suddenly, crushing her to his chest as disappointment and shame made his blood run cold.  He expected her to pull away, but she didn’t, letting him hug her as if she were a small child again.

     “You’re still bleeding Grandpa,” she whispered after a moment, pulling back gently.

     He put a hand to her cheek, looking his girl full in the face for the first time in over two centuries.

     “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

     She nodded and leaned back on her heels. “Come on.  I’ll stitch you up.”


	33. Promises

     They made better time getting to the airport than Nick had expected, following Shaun’s route through the settlements and city ruins.  Preston went ahead of them, keeping the path clear; Shaun followed obediently behind Nick with Dogmeat close by his side, chattering almost nonstop.  They made it to the airport the late afternoon of the second day and Shaun took off for the vertibird remains, shouting in excitement.  The Brotherhood had left very little behind, mostly junk it seemed, but the Minutemen had cleaned up the area around the abandoned vertibird and put fencing in place.  There was a makeshift shelter against the outer wall of the airport, a lean-to of sorts, and a cooking fire already smoking with an unidentifiable cut of meat.

     “Thanks for helping out, Nick,” Preston said, joining him as Shaun and Sturges inspected the vertibird. “Shaun can be a handful even in a secure settlement.”

     “He was alright,” Nick replied with a shrug, “Talkative, though.”

     Preston chuckled in agreement. “How many times do you think you heard the phrase ‘my mom said’ since we left Sanctuary?”

     “Every third sentence, I’d imagine.”

     “Sounds normal.”

     Nick smiled to himself, hands in his pockets.  Shaun had climbed up inside the vertibird and was trying to coax Dogmeat into the cockpit with him.

     “I should get over to the Castle before dark,” Preston said, “You’re sure you’ll be alright here?  Do I need to send more Minutemen by?”

     “Definitely sure,” Nick said, “Three’s good.”

     “Should be plenty of supplies,” Preston continued, nodding. “The radio works, there’s ammo and flares in those boxes over there --”

     “We’ll be fine,” Nick said, smiling encouragingly. “Get moving before you have to contend with the ruins at night.”

     Preston nodded, shook Nick’s hand, waved to Sturges and Shaun, and then was gone.  Nick watched as Shaun tried to haul Dogmeat into the cockpit before giving up and jumping out.

     “Have you ever been in one of these, Mr. Valentine?”

     “Can’t say I have, kiddo.”

     “My mom said she rode in one once,” Shaun replied, “When my dad was hurt in the war.  The Army took her and my uncle to the hospital in a vertibird.  This one is a bigger kind; it can carry a couple people.  Do you think she’ll like it?”

     “I don’t imagine many mothers get vertibirds as gifts,” Nick said, “She’ll be pretty impressed.”

     Shaun beamed, cheeks pink and eyes bright. “Some of the switches are broken,” he said, “And the doors are jammed open, and the fusion core hull is messed up, but Sturges says it looks like it’s in good shape otherwise.  You should come with us when we show it to her.”

     “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, kiddo.”  


  
  


     _“Sanctuary Hills, this is Nora Wilson.  Come in, Sanctuary.”_

     MacCready jumped, the open Grognak comic sliding off his lap onto the floor.  He had begun to drift off when the radio crackled to life, filling the empty common house with Nora’s distorted voice.  He sat up and grabbed the microphone, flipping the answer switch like Sturges had shown him.

     “Nora?  Still there?”

     There was a static-filled pause. “Is that you, Mac?”

     “It’s me.  How’s it going?  Everything alright?”

     “I’m fine,” Nora replied, “We’re back in Underworld; I thought I’d check in.  Where’s Sturges?”

     “He – uh – had to go repair the radio at Abernathy,” MacCready replied, hoping she couldn’t hear the lie four hundred miles away. “Stayed overnight.”

     “Oh, alright,” Nora replied, her voice fading out over the static momentarily. “Is Shaun around?”

     “Am I not good company to talk to?”

     He imagined her rolling her eyes before she answered. “You’re great company, Mac,” she said, “I just wanted to tell my son goodnight.”

     “He’s already asleep,” MacCready answered, knowing he was pressing his luck with a second lie. “He and Duncan had a long day running around.”

     Duncan had actually spent the last two days pouting over not being allowed to follow his friend to the airport, dragging his feet around Sanctuary while drowning in his miserable loneliness.

     “Alright, then,” Nora said after a moment, “How’s everything up there?”

     “Same old, same old.  Where are you guys at?”

     “Back in Underworld for the night.  Heading to Rivet City in the morning.”

     “Ready to come home?”

     “Most definitely,” Nora replied.  She sounded exhausted, emotionally wrung out – the way she had back in the days they spent on the road, looking for a way to get her into the Institute.

     “What’s wrong?”

     There was a bit of tense silence and MacCready heard her sigh on the other end. “My grandmother died a few months ago.”

     “I’m sorry,” MacCready said, unable to think of anything else.  He wasn’t very good at the emotional stuff, even with Nora.  He briefly contemplated telling her that Haylen was pregnant and then thought better of it – she probably didn’t want his good news overshadowing her need to grieve.

     “Thanks,” she replied and he heard a sniffle.  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat; Nora had only cried in front of him once before.

     “I’m going to hop off,” she said at last and he gave a silent sigh of relief.

     “Coming home soon?”

     “Next boat out of Rivet City,” she said, “Hopefully we’ll be at the Castle in two weeks or so.”

     “Be careful in the metro tunnels.”

     “Will do, Mac.  Keep Sanctuary safe for me.”

     “As always.  See you soon.”

     “See you.”

     The line went silent.  MacCready set down the microphone and stood, stretching his stiff limbs.  It was almost nine; Jun Long should be by soon to take second shift at the radio.  Great thing about living  in Sanctuary – there were enough people that nighttime watch shifts were only three hours at a time.

     “Hey, sexy.”

     Haylen appeared in the doorway, leaning against the empty frame with her arms crossed loosely over her chest.  She’d let her hair down from the bun she usually kept it in and dirty blonde curls tumbled over her shoulders.

     “Hey, yourself,” he said, eyes trailing down her petite frame. “Figured you’d be heading to bed.”

     “First trimester exhaustion is easing off,” she replied, giving him a sly grin. “Replaced by...hormones.”

     “I see.”

     “Don’t take too long getting home.”

     She winked at him and turned away, sauntering off the porch and into the darkness.  MacCready glanced at the clock.  Thirteen minutes until his shift was over.

 

     The trip from Underworld to Rivet City took most of the day, skirting Brotherhood patrols and groups of Super Mutants any time they left the metro tunnels.  Charon led the way with James bringing up the rear, the group mostly silent the whole time.  George’s reception back in Underworld had been less than friendly; no one said anything outright but Nora was sure the rumors had spread in the last week.  She wasn’t sure what to say or even if she should say anything, so she stayed silent and contemplated her own anxieties.

     Rivet City was as stuffy and busy as it had been the last time they were there and once they’d paid for rooms, Nora dropped her bag and took off on a meandering wander through the ship’s ant farm-like hallways.  After a while she discovered an unguarded door to the flight deck and took advantage of the silence and relatively fresh air.  Leaned against the railing, she stared out on the dark water of the Potomac, the sun setting behind her and casting long shadows over the tidal basin.

     The door opened again and she heard footsteps approach.  Hancock joined her at the railing, brushing her shoulder.

     “Never expected to see something that pretty way out here,” he said after a moment, “Present company excluded, of course.”

     Nora smiled. “Flatterer.”

     “You know I only say what’s true, love.”

     She glanced over and let him take her hand in his, rubbing his calloused thumb over her knuckles.

     “What are the odds, you think?”

     “Of?”

     “That my grandmother was one of the feral ghouls that killed MacCready’s wife a few years ago.”

     Hancock squeezed her hand. “No idea, love,” he said, “You really thinking about that kinda thing?”

     “Can’t get it out of my head,” Nora replied with a heavy sigh, “It makes me angry and sad all at the same time…we all know what ferals do to anything that falls under ‘not ghoul’.”

     “It’s a tough call to make, Nora,” Hancock answered, “Putting down someone you love.  Would you be able to put me down if I went feral?”

     “I know it’s hard to let people go,” Nora said, looking away. “I understand.  But…”

     Hancock waited a moment as she stared into the distance, the lines in her face evident even in the fading light.

     “My mom died of cancer,” she said, and Hancock nodded. “She got sick when I was a teenager.  When the medicines stopped working, her doctors wanted to try surgery.  They put her under and she stroked out.  Blood clot.  Managed to restart her heart but she was basically brain-dead, had machines breathing for her and all that.”

     She took a deep breath and continued. “Since I was eighteen at the time, legal and all that, it was up to me as her next of kin to decide if they kept her on the machines or not.  I was a kid.  Lost my dad before I even knew him, losing my mom now.  I didn’t want to let her go, but Grandpa was pretty adamant that I should.”

     Hancock nodded. “Feelin’ like he’s been a hypocrite about the whole feral thing?”

     Nora gave him a watery smile. “You read my mind,” she said, “That and what he did to you and James.  What he let those assholes do to me and Charon and how he basically formed a _lynch mob --_ ”

     Hancock put an arm around her and pulled her close.  She took a shuddering breath and went still.

     “What’s wrong with my family, John?” she asked, speaking into the folds of his coat. “My son and my grandfather…am I next?”

     “If you’re worried you’re going to turn dark side, I think you can relax,” Hancock replied, kissing the top of her head. “I’ve met a lot of different people in my time and it’s no coincidence I stuck with you.”

     “You’re biased.”

     “I know you,” Hancock answered, “I know you’ve got a big heart and a good head on your shoulders.  You’re not going to suddenly turn evil, love.”

     “My grandfather was a good person, too.  I learned everything from him.”

     “He had two hundred years to change.  He thought he’d lost everyone that ever met anything to him.  Your son was raised in a laboratory.  Brainwashed.  No one just woke up on the wrong side one day.”

     She didn’t respond right away, face buried against his chest. “I guess my family drama has officially trumped yours.”

     “Probably.”

     “Ever think about cutting your losses and heading back to Goodneighbor?”

     “You mean leaving you behind?  You and Shaun and Anne?” Hancock replied, “Never, love.  Not a chance.  I’m done runnin’ away.”

     She pulled back and looked up at him, gray eyes meeting onyx ones in the twilight. “You’re a saint.”

     “Not even close.  I just belong with you.”

     He let go of one of her hands and reached into his coat pocket, the one where he usually kept his little whittling knife.  He pulled something out, something small enough to keep hidden in his closed fist.

     “I’ve been waiting for a good time to give you this,” he said, “Finished it around the time we got to Megaton.”

     Nora’s mouth dropped open a little.  Sitting in his palm was a small ring carved from dark red wood, polished smooth and gleaming.

     “I used your old ring to get the size right.  I know it’s just wood, it’s not real nice like --”                             

     He let out a heavy breath, as if he’d been holding it. “I don’t want to try to replace Nate,” he said, “I know I can’t do that, I just thought – maybe – you would want...Fuck, I’m fucking this all up, aren’t I?”

     “John.”

     “I want to marry you, Nora.”

     Nora looked up from the ring he was holding towards her.  He sighed and closed his hand.

     “You can say no.  I understand --”

     “Like hell I’m going to say no,” Nora replied, grabbing his hand. “Why on Earth would I do that?”

     “Because I had planned to do this thing right and I really screwed it up,” Hancock replied, shaking his head. “And I’m a ghoul and we’re on some shitty old boat with mutants in smelling distance, and you’re an…a fucking amazing woman from a time when --”

     “John, shut up,” Nora said with a smile, “First of all, you know I don’t care about the ghoul thing.  It’s as inconsequential to me as your height.”

     “You crazy smoothskin.”

     “Second,” she continued, “Don’t get any ideas about my past romantic adventures.  Nate bought me a pretty little ring but left it in his pants pocket.  I found it accidentally and he proposed to me in the middle of a laundromat.”

     “That’s…yeah, not really romantic.”

     “I said yes because I loved him,” Nora said, “And I’m saying yes now because I love you.”

     She held out her left hand expectantly, grinning at him.  He smiled weakly and slid the ring onto her third finger.

     “I’ll have to find one for you.”

     “I made it already,” Hancock replied, reaching back into his pocket and producing a second ring, also carved from the same auburn wood. “I figured, if you _did_ say yes, we should match.”

     “I can’t believe you made these,” Nora said, pushing it onto his gnarled finger. “Honestly, it doesn’t get much more romantic than handmade wedding bands.”

     “Flatterer.”

     Nora reached up and kissed him, long and deep and purposeful. “Is this what you and Shaun have been planning behind my back?”

     “He asked me a few weeks ago if we’d had a wedding while he was still in the Institute,” Hancock replied, “Made me realize it was time to make it official, if you’d have me.”

     “I’m all yours, John.”


	34. Friends

     Lyssa had assured him that the hallucinations were part of the Psycho he’d been slamming down, but they weren’t going away.  Not that Lyssa had been an expert, but they hadn’t shown up until that first vial was swimming through his bloodstream, so he’d assumed she was right.  It had been days since he’d last shot up and they still wouldn’t go away.

     Neither would the tremor in his hand or the pain that wracked his ancient joints.  Or the cold, salty smell of smoothskins, a smell that seemed to cling to the air itself inside the airless ship.  George had taken refuge inside the church, a cramped, dark room barely bigger than a conference room, where the smell wasn’t as strong.

     One of his girls sat next to him, red hair pulled back with a bright pink ribbon to match her Sunday dress.  Nora – maybe Jane, he wasn’t sure – bent studiously over a picture book Bible, turning the pages with slow, deliberate movements.  He looked back up at the empty pulpit and then down to his hands.

     _Oh, God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and detest all my sins –_

     He wasn’t, though.  He was sorry Nora seemed so disappointed in him, but not for what he’d done. He was sorry Lyssa was dead, but not for what they’d done together.

     Footsteps reached his ears and he glanced up as Nora sat down next to him on the hard pew.  The little girl in ribbons had disappeared.

     “Didn’t interrupt you, did I?”

     “No, just daydreaming,” he replied, shifting uncomfortably.  She leaned back and nodded.

     “We’re leaving tomorrow afternoon.  Straight shot up to the Castle.”

     “The Castle?”

     “Fort Independence,” Nora clarified, “The Minutemen use it as a base.”

     “Thought they lost it decades ago.”

     “They did,” Nora said, “My friend Preston – he’s my second in command – and I took it back last year so we could rebuild the Minutemen.  It was filled with mirelurks and a Queen.”

     George nodded.  He’d been to the Fort while Minutemen occupied it, back in the good years between the bombs and the militia’s slow crumble.  He couldn’t imagine it had held up well over time.

     “Been busy, I see.”

     “I needed a safe place for my son.  The Minutemen were the best choice.”

     “Your synthetic son.”

     Nora looked over at him, her expression neutral, and nodded. “Yes,” she said after a brief pause, “Is that a problem?”

     “It’s just…”

     “He’s not a replacement,” Nora said, “He’s just a child Hancock and I chose to care for.”

     George looked back at the pulpit, unsure what to say.  Nora took a deep breath and stood; he reached for her hand and squeezed it.

     “I know you’ve had to make a lot of hard choices…”

     She gave him a half-smile and pulled away gently. “Shaun doesn’t see himself as anything less than our son,” she said, “And your grandson.  Don’t do anything to change that.”

     Without waiting for an answer, she turned and left, footsteps echoing away into the halls of the ship.

 

     “Ugh.  I miss our bed.”

     Nora shifted uncomfortably on the ancient mattress, springs squeaking loud enough to wake the dead.  Hancock shrugged from his seat across the room.

     “Better’n a sleeping bag in the middle of the desert.”

     “Not by much,” Nora complained, shifting again and bunching a pillow behind her back.  She’d never gotten used to the thin, stiff mattresses that were so common in the wasteland, remedying the problem in her own way with piled blankets and spare animal hides on her beds at Sanctuary and the Castle.

     “We’ll be back to your nest soon enough.”

     She made a face at him as he smirked, glancing up at her from sharpening his knife.  She opened her mouth to reply and then closed it, eyes skimming down his profile.

     “You know, I almost forgot how good you look in that old coat.”

     “You _forgot_?”

     “ _Almost_ forgot,” Nora repeated, sliding off the bed to join him.  He set his knife and whetstone down on the table as she sat in his lap, hands resting on her hips.

     “Been too long,” she murmured against his lips, fingering the buttons on his coat. “I’ve missed you.”

     “Of course you have.”

     “You and your ego…”

     He responded with a deeper kiss, one hand sliding down to a bare thigh and squeezing gently.  Nora hummed in pleasure and pushed his coat roughly off his shoulders.  He started to stand, hooking her knees around his waist, when she shook her head and pushed back.

     “We do it on that bed and the whole ship will hear us.”

     “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

     Nora giggled and kissed him again, pressing her hips into his.  He groaned and tightened his grip on her thighs, trailing kisses along her jaw and down her neck –

     A bang echoed suddenly off the old metal door. “Nora?”

     Nora froze and looked over, frowning. “Is that who I think it is?”

     “Ignore him.”

     Hancock kissed her collarbone as the intruder knocked again.  Nora sighed and pulled away.

     “Oh, come on, love --”

     “Nora, I need to talk to you,” James yelled through the metal.  He sounded drunk and desperate.

     Nora slid off Hancock’s lap and he glared at the door.

     “The world better be ending again.”

     “I’ll get rid of him as quick as I can,” she hissed back.  She reached for knob and yanked the door open; James stumbled forward into the room as if he’d been leaning on it for support.

     “What are you doing?”

     James straightened as best he could, using the table for support. “I need to talk to you,” he said, slurring his words.  He raked a hand through his hair and fell heavily into a chair.  Nora frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. 

     “Having you been drinking?”

     He blinked at her and shook his head. “No, no, I – Dr. – that guy,” he replied, “He fixed my hand.”

     He waved it at her for confirmation.  His right hand was wrapped in a large wad of gauze.

     “Put me out and then gave me something really strong for the pain,” he continued, picking at the bandage. “I don’t know what it was, but it was really good --”

     “Don’t pick at that,” Nora scolded, taking the seat next to him and pushing his hand off the bandage. “What did you need to talk about?”

     “Charon,” James replied, “You gotta give me back his contract, Nora.  I need him.  I’ll pay you for it, whatever you want.”

     “Didn’t you invalidate it on purpose?” Hancock asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

     “I wasn’t thinking,” James said, “I’m shit at this, I can’t do it without him.  When I stopped to think about heading out without him, I panicked and…”

     He trailed off and let his head fall onto the table.  Nora stared for a moment.

     “Are you in love with him?”

     He stared back at her. “I don’t do dudes,” he said, cheek pressed into the wood. “I mean, I’m not like one-hundred percent against it, but there’s gotta be a girl involved, too or it just doesn’t get my motor really revved --”

     “Okay, okay, I get it,” Nora interrupted, waving a hand to stop him. “I don’t need a full run-down of your sexual preferences.”

     “If you’re not into the guy that way, why do you need him?” Hancock asked, glancing at Nora.

     “I’m a drunk,” James said, “I’m not that good at shooting a gun.  I can never remember if the sun rises in the east or the west.  I freak out when radroaches swarm.”

     “James, you can learn how to survive,” Nora replied, “How to shoot, how to stay calm, how to avoid your vices…”

     “He’s my only friend,” James declared, lifting his head into his hands.  He sounded miserable.  Nora was silent for a moment, unsure of what to say.

     “I left the Vault and hung around Megaton for a few weeks, trying to find my dad,” he said, looking up at her with reddened eyes. “He abandoned me in 101, left without a word one morning while I was still asleep.  I didn’t know jack-shit about how to survive.  I had a fucking _BB gun_ to defend myself.  I bought Charon’s contract because I needed the help and I fucking needed someone to talk to.  Three Dog calls me the ‘Lone Wanderer’ like it’s some super-cool, edgy shit but it fucking sucks to be out there by yourself and even when Charon gets pissed at me, at least he’s there, he didn’t leave me or get shot or tell me to piss off --”

     He stopped, breath hitching, and looked away.  Nora sat in silence, stomach knotting as she thought about MacCready and how hard it had been to let him go, to tell him he’d fulfilled his obligation and needed to be with his son and not her.  She’d had other friends to fall back on, a network of people and resources, and, when she had to travel down into the cradle of nuclear destruction, she’d had Hancock.

     But she couldn’t sell him back Charon’s contract. 

     “James, I’m not going to sell you back the contract,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I can’t do that to him.”

     James’s face fell and he sighed. “I thought you might say that.”

     “It was the only bit of control he had, entrusting it to me,” Nora explained, “I’m not going to sell it and betray his trust in me.”

     “I get it,” James replied, standing. “I understand, I do.  I’m sorry, I’m just high and sleep-deprived and acting like a bratty kid --”

     “However,” Nora continued, “He’s free to choose what he wants to do.”

     James paused and gaped. “What?”

    “I don’t need another mercenary,” Nora answered, “I have MacCready around.  I don’t need a bodyguard.  I have Hancock and a militia.  And somehow I don’t think Charon would be very happy digging water pumps and helping plant crops, which is actually a pretty big part of the Minutemen’s responsibilities.”

     “Then what are you going to do with him?”

     “I told him that he’s free to choose what he wants.”

     “Free to choose.”

     “Yes,” Nora said, giving a short nod. “As his employer, I want him to be useful but also effective.  So I told him – earlier today, while you were arguing with our Railroad contact – that he can stick around the Castle and help out the Minutemen, or he can stick around you and keep my friend alive.”

     James stared at her, jaw lax.  Nora waited for a moment and was about to say something else when he closed the distance and hugged her.  It was awkward, Nora still seated and James bent towards her, but he squeezed tight for a moment and then let her go.

     “There’s no chance I can convince you to leave Hancock for me?”

     Hancock scoffed. “Hey, I put a ring on her,” he said, “She’s mine.”

     Nora rolled her eyes as James whistled, grabbing her left hand and peering at the ring.

     “Well, fuck,” he said, “You got any girlfriends?”

     “I know plenty of nice women; I’ll see what I can do.”

     James gave her a tired smile. “You’re a saint.”

     “Not in the slightest.  Go to bed.  Sleep it off.”

     James nodded and slunk out, slumped but seemingly unburdened.  Hancock reached over the table and grabbed Nora’s hand.

     “You and me,” he said, “We’re going to take a honeymoon.  Somewhere no one’s going to bang on the door and interrupt.”

     “Good luck finding that spot,” Nora replied with a disbelieving snort.

     “How about Vegas?” he asked, pulling her back into her lap. “Isn’t that where everyone went to get hitched back in your day?”

     “We are _not_ walking out to Nevada, if Las Vegas even exists anymore.”

     “North, then,” Hancock replied, kissing her. “What’s north of Boston?”

     “Two hundred years ago, states called Vermont and Maine,” Nora replied, “Then Canada.  Probably just radioactive moose now.”

     “What the hell is a moose?”

     Nora fumbled with the buttons on Hancock’s shirt. “Like a radstag, but bigger.  Really tall.”

     “Radstag aren’t that bad.”

     Nora hummed in agreement and kissed him. “Shush,” she said, going for his flag belt. “Time to consummate your marriage, Mr. Mayor.”


	35. Best Laid Plans

     Nora felt her stomach clench as the boat churned up to the dock, sun-bleached sails flapping gaily.  She took a deep breath, eyes closed, and pictured Sanctuary – home, her children, her dog, her bed.  Solid, unmoving ground.  Only two weeks, fourteen days, and she’d be back where she belonged.

     “…been some storms out there, so be careful.  Turbulent.”

     Nora felt bile in the back of her throat and James glanced over at her. “Doin’ alright, there?”

     She nodded, not trusting herself to actually open her mouth.  Rough seas.  _Perfect_.

     “Good to see you guys are doing okay,” James continued, clapping Gob on the shoulder. “Hoped the wastes didn’t get you.”

     “Years of Moriarty, the wastes were nothing,” Gob replied with a nonchalant shrug, “Had plenty of supplies from the raiders, anyway.”

     “Sorry again about…what happened,” Nora managed, tearing her gaze away from the boat. “If I had known…”

     “Honestly, they did me a favor,” Gob said, “Got me away from Moriarty.”

     “Was he that bad?”

     “Jackass of the highest order,” James answered, and Gob nodded in agreement. “There’s a reason I broke my hand on his face.”

     The caravan boss whistled loudly nearby and slapped one of the Brahmin on the backside. “Time to move!”

     “That’s my cue,” Gob said, shouldering his bag. “Take care of yourself, James.”

     “I’ll do my best,” James said with a smile, “Give me love to Nova if you see her sometime?”

     “Will do.”

     He turned and waved once more as the caravan trundled away.  James returned it, following Nora onto the boat where the rest of the group waited.

     “So long, D.C.,” James said as the boat pulled away from the dock with a lurch, “Fuck you very much.”

     Nora gave him a tight-lipped smile and gripped the railing in one hand.  James raised an eyebrow at her.

     “Seasick already?”

     “This boat makes me nervous,” Nora replied through her teeth.

     “Hey, we made it here without any major mishaps, right?”

     Nora closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. “Don’t talk about mishaps around me right now,” she said, “I will use your bag as a puke bucket.”

     “Gross.”

    

     Deacon glanced across the room to where his captor was asleep, an unmoving lump underneath a worn blanket.  He twisted the fork in the lock again and adjusted the bobby pin.  A tumbler slid out of place with a small click.

     “Shit.”

     He froze and waited.  The man didn’t move.  Deacon let out a silent sigh of relief and wished for about the fiftieth time that he’d made Nora or Cait teach him how to do this properly.

     Hiding the bobby pin wasn’t hard; he kept it clipped along the waistband of his underwear, out of sight.  The fork had been harder to obtain, since Clayton usually took them away when he was done eating, but after almost two weeks, he’d forgotten.  As soon as he was asleep, Deacon bent the tine down and started working the lock.

     His arm was beginning to go numb and his neck ached from the odd angle when he finally heard it click softly.  He pressed on the door and it swung open with a slight creak.  Clayton shifted in bed and Deacon froze again, waiting with his heart in his throat.

     Seconds ticked past and Clayton didn’t move again.  Deacon pushed the door forward as slowly as he could, praying that it didn’t squeak again.  Once it was open far enough, he stood and slid out of the little cell as fast as he could.  Boots in hand, he hurried across the room to the trunk where Clayton kept his weapons.  He tried the lid but it was locked tight.  He tried it again out of frustration but gave up quickly – it was risky at best but he’d have to leave unarmed or risk Clayton waking up again.

     The fort was a dark, musty maze littered with rusting synth parts and traps.  Deacon crept along in the dark, switching off every mine he could find and tiptoeing over the tripwires.  He stopped and waited with every creak and skitter, but didn’t encounter any signs of life.

     One of Nora’s Minuteman settlements was within running distance of Fort Hagen; he could make it there in a few hours if he stayed out of trouble.  They’d give him food and supplies and then he could radio for Preston or whoever was in charge in Nora’s absence.

     He felt good about his plan, slipping his boots back on in an empty stairwell before making his way up to the ground floor.  He reached for the door to the front corridor, the one that would take him out the side entrance and to freedom, but stopped when he heard voices on the other side.

     “…why we have to traipse here in the middle of the fucking night --”

     “We’d have been here earlier if you hadn’t dragged your feet --”

     “Don’t start on me, woman; we’re not getting paid enough for this shit and you know it.”

     “Then leave, asshole,” the woman replied harshly.  Deacon glanced around in panic for a hiding place as he heard one of the arrivals begin clacking on the terminal on the other side of the door.  Just as it beeped in approval, he spied a broom closet and sprinted into it, throwing himself into a dark space between two half-collapsed shelves. The door swung open and footsteps approached.

     “We’re supposed to wait here.”

     “Why?”

     “Probably because he’s booby-trapped the fucking place, you dipshit.”

     “You’re a serious bitch, you know that?”

     “There’s the door.”

     The man’s reply was cut off by a blaring crack of static that echoed out of overhead loudspeakers.

     “Is that you, Jade?”

     “It’s me.”

     “Do you think he can hear us?”

     “Why would he have asked me a question if he couldn’t?”

     “Hold on, I’ll be up in a moment.”

     Deacon forced himself to breathe, slow and steady, and peered through the crack in the door to the landing.  A pair of raiders, a short, grubby man and a taller woman with blue-tipped hair, leaned against the wall, tense and waiting.  Clayton was going to realize he was gone soon, if he hadn’t already.  He had to move and he had to do it now.

     He eased up from his hiding space and pulled the fork out of his pocket.  If he could catch them when they looked away…

     He tossed the fork up onto the stairs.  It clattered on the concrete, echoing like a gong in the relative silence of fort.  The raiders straightened and glanced around for the noise, backs turned toward him.  Bingo.

     He slid out of the closet and sprinted towards the door.

     “Hey, what the fuck?”

     Abandoning all pretense of stealth, he darted through the open door and down the corridor.

     “He’s mine, get him!” Clayton’s voice echoed through the intercom.  Deacon swore and ran, stumbling over garbage and debris.  His foot caught in a synth skeleton and he fell, landing on his wrists.  Hot pokers of pain shot up his arms and he swore loudly.  Footsteps pounded behind him.

     Ignoring the pain, he pushed himself up and kept running, almost blind in the dark.  He skidded to a stop in front of the door, yanking on the handle.  It refused to budge and his wrist screamed at him in agony.  Growling, heart beating like a snare drum against his breastbone, he twisted the handle again and shoved his whole weight against it.  The door popped open with a protesting screech and something small and hard dropped on his head.

     “Shit, get down!”

     He knew from experience that he had about three seconds before the grenade went off.  He also knew that three seconds was not nearly enough time to get away unscathed.

     Deacon threw himself forward, hitting the ground just as the grenade went off.  The concussive blast slammed into him like a super mutant’s sledgehammer and something hot and sharp tore through his thigh.  His ears rang and his vision blurred; he tried to stand but couldn’t.  He hurt all over and the ground rolled under him like a dinghy.

     Garbled words reached him; he lifted a hand and touched the side of his head.  He was bleeding from a fresh wound on his temple and from his ear.

     “Look what you did,” he heard someone say, grabbing his wrists roughly.  He tried to protest as the broken bones scraped and jarred against each other, but nothing but mumbling came out.  He glanced down as his leg, which seemed to have taken the brunt of the grenade’s damage.

     His pant leg was shredded and bloody from several long gashes up and down his leg, but it looked like the entire thing was still there.  A chunk of dark shrapnel stuck out of his thigh just above his knee.

     “Wasting resources on you…”

     He closed his eyes and let darkness overtake him.


	36. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra-long chapter full of feel-good stuff before we get back to the nitty-gritty.

     Sturges slammed his fist against the fusion core for the third time, teeth gritted.  With a hiss and scrape, it slid into place and the little light on the end glowed green.

     “Thank fuck,” he muttered, shaking his hand and then wincing when he remembered Shaun was standing next to him.  The preteen sniggered at him.

     “Everyone thinks they shouldn’t cuss around me,” he said, “But I hear Mom and Hancock say all kinds of things.”

     Sturges shut the fusion core panel and clicked the lock into place. “You ready to try this thing out?”

     “I can try it with you?” Shaun asked, perking up.

     “Sure,” Sturges replied, “Just think fondly of me when I’m on the run from your mother.”

     “Okay,” Shaun answered, eyes wide. “Can we do it now?”

     “No reason to wait.”

     Shaun whooped excitedly and clambered into the cockpit.  Dogmeat whined and paced besides Sturges for a moment before following, nails skittering on the metal.

     “You guys ready to see something?” Sturges called to Nick and the Minutemen nearby, “We’re going to test this baby out.”

     Shaun was already in the co-pilot’s seat, snapping his safety harness into place.  He was wearing a bright red flight helmet and a huge grin.  Sturges settled into the pilot’s seat and strapped in before taking the yellow helmet Shaun offered.  With a deep breath, he began flipping on the starter switches.  The engine rumbled to life and Dogmeat let out a low whine.

     “It’s alright, boy,” Shaun soothed, scratching the dog’s flattened ears. “That’s the one for the doors, right?”

     Sturges glanced over at the button Shaun was pointing to and nodded. “Yep.”

     He pressed it and the doors slid closed with a metallic bang.  Dogmeat tensed and Sturges made a mental note to reduce the power fed to the doors.

     “Alright.  Let’s get this thing moving.”

     He grabbed the throttle and pushed it gently forward.  The vertibird’s engines hummed and the propellers shuddered to life.  He pushed further and felt a jolt as it lifted into the air.

     “It’s working!”

     Shaun leaned over to peer at the altitude gauge.  Sturges swallowed hard and held the throttle steady.  The vertibird continued to rise shakily, the noise almost deafening as the propellers picked up momentum.  He saw Shaun yell something else but couldn’t hear him over the racket.  He risked a glance out the side window and saw the Minutemen and Nick about a hundred feet below, some waving at him enthusiastically.

     “I’m going to let her down,” Sturges yelled, though he was sure Shaun couldn’t hear him.  They needed to fix the comm systems ASAP.

     He eased off the throttle and felt the bird drop a bit.  Dogmeat jolted and barked, huddling beside Shaun’s seat with his hackles raised and a pitiful pout in his eyes.  The vertibird descended in jolts and shudders and finally landed back on the ground with a bone-jarring thump.  Sturges cut the engine and let out a slow, steady breath.

     “That was awesome!” Shaun yelped, yanking off his helmet. “Sturges, we did it!  A little more practice and we can fly it anywhere!”

     Sturges nodded and took another deep breath as the doors slid open again.  Dogmeat rushed out and Shaun followed, his helmet abandoned on the seat.

     “Nick, did you see that?  We flew the vertibird!  It works!”

     Sturges released the throttle and wiped his sweaty palms on his pants.  His hands shook as he unhooked himself from the harness and climbed down.  Nick was watching him bemusedly.

     “A vertibird gets you more than that teleporter?”

     “I didn’t have visions of fiery, painful death with the teleporter.”

     “True,” Nick conceded, glancing around the interior. “You’re quite the mechanic.”

     Sturges combed his hair back off his forehead. “Shaun’s surprisingly helpful,” he said, “I didn’t think we could actually pull this off, but besides a few non-essentials…”

     “I haven’t seen a Minuteman group with such impressive hardware in a long time,” Nick replied, “You should be proud of yourself.”

     “I think I will be when my heart and stomach return to their proper places.”

     Nick gave him a wry smile and held out a half-empty pack of cigarettes.  Sturges took one gratefully and lit it, breathing deep as his heart rate slowed and his stomach stopped knotting.  Shaun came running up, cheeks pink with exertion from the excited jumping and babbling he’d been doing lately.

     “Do you think they’ll be back soon?” he asked, breathless. “Mom and Hancock, I mean.  I want to show them we can fly it!”

     “I’m sure she’s hurrying home as fast as she can, kid.”

 

     Nora groaned and leaned her forehead against the bottom rail, cold sweat prickling her skin.  She’d thrown up three times in the last week of their trip across the Atlantic, finally dry heaving over the deck until her stomach ached and she was practically shaking with the effort.  Occasional doses of Rad-Away had kept her seasickness under control during the trip down, but she was out now and suffering.

     “Doing alright, sweetheart?”

     Nora let her legs crumple under her and sat hard on the deck. “Not really.”

     George sat down next to her, carefully placing a hand on her back between her shoulder blades. “You feel warm.”

     “I feel like shit.”

     “Always did have a problem with boats,” George replied.

     “I don’t remember that.”

     “Well, how often did you get on one before now?” George asked, rubbing her skin gently.  Nora felt her shoulders tense at his touch but didn’t pull away.

     “Never, I guess.”

     “We took you to Nuka-World one summer,” George said, “I think you were about six.  Took the boat ride tour through the bottling plant and you threw up in your mom’s lap halfway through.”

     “Sounds like fun,” Nora muttered, closing her eyes as a particularly hard wave rocked the boat.

     “Anything I can do to help?”

     “Not unless you’re carrying Rad-Away.”

     “Sorry, I’m not.”

     Nora sighed and peeked one eye open to glance back at the cabin where Hancock was.  Her last bag of Rad-Away had been damaged and accidentally split open while he’d tried to stick her, burning his hand and forearm and adding guilt to her laundry list of current ailments.

     “Are you sure you didn’t pick something up out there, sweetheart?” George asked, pressing the back of his hand to her cheek. “You look and feel feverish.”

     “I felt fine until we got on the boat,” Nora replied with a shrug, “What about you?”

     “What about me?”

     “Your hand,” she said, nodding at him.  The tremor was still there in his hand, but he gripped the railing and shrugged.

     “Had that for a while,” he lied, “I’m getting old.”

     If she knew he was lying, she didn’t say anything.  He rubbed her shoulder gently, brow furrowed.

     “Is there still a doctor in Diamond City?”

     “Yeah,” Nora replied, “But there’s two in Sanctuary.  I’ll see them when we get back.”

     “ _Two_ doctors?”

     “Well, Curie travels a lot between settlements,” she said, “Haylen stays put, though.  She’s good.”

     “I’m impressed at your networking.”

     “Haylen is a Brotherhood defector,” Nora replied, side-eyeing him briefly. “She left when she found out her paladin was a synth.  Maxson wanted him executed; I gave them safe harbor and now they’re both on my payroll.”

     George’s reply was cut off when the cabin door creaked open and James shuffled out, shirtless and yawning.

     “You people are loud.”

     “Sorry.”

     James fell onto the deck next to Nora, rubbing at his eyes. “What time is it?”

     “Um…dawn,” Nora replied, gesturing east, where the night sky had begun to lighten with twinges of pink.

     “Damn,” he said and stifled another yawn, “What’re you doing out at this ungodly hour?”

     “This seems to be the steadiest place on this boat,” Nora said, “I don’t want to barf as badly sitting here.”

     “Seems as good a reason as any,” James said, “Is that land or am I seeing things?”

     He pointed northeast, towards a foggy gray blob.  Nora squinted for a moment and then grinned.

     “Holy shit, I think it is,” she said.  She began fiddling with her Pip-Boy dials and after a moment, the slow, calming chords of a fiddle reached out through the static on her radio.

     “Sounds like Radio Freedom.”

     Nora’s grin widened. “I think it is!”

     George waited in silence as Nora closed her eyes and turned her ear towards the Radio.  After a few minutes, the fiddle stopped and a garbled voice replaced it.

     _“It’s 6am.  All – stay safe – folks.”_

Nora let out a heavy breath and kissed the screen of her Pip-Boy. “I have never been happier to hear your reports, Matthew.”

     “Thought we’d be a day more out here,” James said, “Not bad.”

     “Oh, I’m so glad to see land again,” Nora added, shading her eyes from the rising sun. “Familiar land, no less.”

     “So, if you’ve got a Castle, are you a queen?” James asked, tilting his head inquisitively.

     “Definitely not,” Nora replied, “I’m a General.”

     “Queen is more regal, though.  You could start calling the Commonwealth your empire.”

     “If I had an empire, I’d be an empress,” Nora shot back, “A queen has a kingdom.”

     “Well, what’s the difference, really?” James asked, shrugging. “General, Queen, Empress.  Maxson has _knights_ and _paladins_ , what have you got?”

     “Because _Maxson_ is the person I want to emulate,” Nora answered with grimace, “I have…two Colonels.  Four Captains.  A couple doctors, a radio operator, a mechanic, a guy who is _really_ good at organizing supplies and selling water.”

     “Selling water?”

     “How do you think we fund everything we do?” Nora asked, eyebrows raised. “I mean, we’ll give it away if someone _needs_ it and we help every settlement build at least one well, but yeah, we’ve got that industrial purifier there.  Hell, I’ve had raiders and Gunners come buy our water.”

     “That’s pretty ingenious,” George said, impressed at his granddaughter’s shrewdness.

     She shrugged. “It was Hancock’s idea, not mine.”

     “Did I hear my name?”

     Nora turned and smiled. “I was telling them about the water purifier,” she said, “How’re those burns?”

     “Just fine,” he said, “Are we seeing land?”

     “Yes, thank God.”

     “Feeling any better?”

     “About the same.”

     “Should probably talk to a doctor, love.”

     “I told her the same thing,” George said and Hancock nodded.  Nora shook her head.

     “I’ll see Curie or Haylen once we get back to Sanctuary,” she replied, “Though I can guarantee I’ll be better once we get off this damn boat.”

     Within an hour they chugged up to the dock, the sun rising to greet them and burning away the mist.  George stared in astonishment at the transformation the old fort had gone through, the collapsed walls cleaned up and partially patched, blue flags flapping over each partition and accompanying cannons.  Nora hurried off the boat as soon as it had stopped at the dock, waving excitedly and running to meet someone up the path towards the Castle.  George followed, trailing Hancock and clenching his hand to hide the tremor.

     “Oh, Preston, you don’t know how much I missed you and this old place,” Nora was saying as they caught up with her, hugging the man as if they’d known each other for years.

     “I missed you, too,” he replied, “Glad you made it back safely.”

     “And you kept my castle in one piece,” Nora said, “Oh, sorry, introductions.  Grandpa, this is Preston Garvey.  Pres, my grandfather.”

     “A pleasure to meet you, sir,” Preston said cordially, holding out a hand.  George took it, trying not to feel awkward.

     “MacCready passed on the news about your grandmother,” Preston said, looking back at Nora. “I’m sorry to hear that she passed.”

     Nora nodded and hugged him again briefly.

     “Oh, damn, I almost forgot,” Preston said, “We’ve got a surprise for you.”

     “A surprise?” Nora asked, glancing over at Hancock.

     “Don’t look at me,” he said, “I got no clue what he’s talking about.”

     “Technically, it’s for the Minutemen,” Preston replied, “But, you being our hardworking leader and all…”

     “Well, what is it?”

     “Something Shaun and Sturges put together.  I’ll have Matthew radio them over with it.”

     “Uh…”

     “Trust me, you’ll love it,” Preston said, grinning at her. “Come on inside.”

     “You’re sure you didn’t know anything about this?” Nora asked Hancock as they traipsed inside the Castle walls.

     “Nothin’.”

     James and Charon caught up in the courtyard where Nora and Preston were clustered around the radio tower.

     “I think we’ll take off for Switchboard now.”

     “No, you’re not,” Nora replied absently, leaning against Matthew’s desk. “You’ll go tomorrow.”

     “What?  Why?”

     “Well, first of all, Switchboard is defunct,” Nora answered, “I’ll have to show you the replacement.  Plus you need to resupply and I’ve got some instructions for Charon.”

     “ETA is five minutes,” Matthew said, flipping off his microphone.  Preston nodded in satisfaction.

     “Instructions for Charon?” James repeated, folding his arms. “And since when is Switchboard defunct?”

     “You were out of the loop for six years, James,” Nora replied, “Shit happens.  Who’s coming, Preston?”

     “You’ll see in five minutes,” he said, glancing up at the sky.  Nora followed his gaze dubiously.

     “You’re freaking me out, Pres.”

     “Patience.”

     She crossed her arms and waited, brow furrowed.  It wasn’t long before the mechanical thwack of a vertibird reached their ears.

     “What in the world?” Nora asked, neck craned up as the vertibird approached, dropping altitude over the Castle.  George recognized the Brotherhood design and tensed.

     “ _That_ ,” Preston said, pointing as the vertibird’s landing gear ejected just outside the Castle wall. “That’s your surprise.”

     Nora looked over at him, clutching her hat as the propellers gusted wind at them.  She seemed flabbergasted.

     “We have a vertibird.”

     “Yes.”

     “Preston, where did we get a working vertibird?” Nora yelled over the noise, “ _How_ did we get a working vertibird?”

     “Shaun and Sturges,” Preston replied, grinning at her. “They fixed it.”

     “They what?”

     As the propellers slowed to a stop, the vertibird door slid open.  Nora’s jaw dropped as Shaun and a dog hopped out and raced toward her.

     “Mom!”

     Nora dropped to her knees as Shaun threw himself at her, wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug.  George clenched his fist again and swallowed as his mouth went dry.  The boy was the spitting image of Nate.

     “This is what you did while I was away?” Nora asked, dodging the dog’s excited lunges. “Easy, Dogmeat, easy.”

     “Mr. Valentine and Mr. Garvey brought us to the airport,” Shaun replied, “And Sturges and I fixed it.  We used this.”

     He waved a small book of some sort at her.  Nora stood and stared.

     “Damn, kid,” Hancock added, joining them. “I thought you’d done good scoping rifles.”

     Shaun grinned and let go of his mother, throwing his arms around the ghoul’s waist. “So you guys don’t have to walk everywhere.”

     “This is amazing,” Nora said, waving as two more people approached them.  George stood back, shifting his weight uneasily.  He glanced over at the two men Nora was talking to and then back to Shaun, catching his gaze.

     He walked over and stopped in front of him, staring for a moment.  George hesitated.  No one seemed to be paying them any attention.

     The boy looked…well, he looked human.  George had never seen a synth that passed as a human so effectively.  How did he look so much like Nora’s late husband?

     “Are you my grandpa?”

     “Uh, yeah,” George replied, unsure what to say.  The boy smiled and jumped forward to hug him, squeezing George’s waist.  He flinched but the little boy didn’t seem to notice, stepping back and smiling.  He had Nora’s smile, a realization that made his heart clench.

     “I’m happy you’re home.”

     George let himself smile. “I am, too.”


	37. On The Trail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a roll, guys! Housework? What housework? I haven't been neglecting my life in favor of writing. How dare you suggest otherwise. *shifty eyes*

     “So they went from a secret underground bunker to a tomb with a big red line leading up to the door?”

     “Nora said that Switchboard was compromised.”

     “Well, I get that, but this seems like a really terrible choice.”

     “I doubt they had the time to be choosy about their new location.”

     James rolled his eyes at Charon and poked the bronze medallion on the wall. “It doesn’t look like a door.”

     “I think it’s a puzzle.”

     “Weird puzzle.”

     James pressed his palm to the center of the medallion and pushed.  Metal scraped against metal briefly and he let go.  Charon dropped his bag with a loud thump on the dusty ground and leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest.  James sighed.

     “I don’t like puzzles,” he said to no one in particular, craning his neck to stare at the ceiling. “You hear me?  I don’t like puzzles.  I’m not that smart.  The smart one sent me.”

     “Who are you talking to?”

     “Whoever is watching us,” James replied, tugging at the red wire strung along the wall just above the medallion. “This is a fiber optic cable.  High-quality audio-visual, data transfer – these people have some nice hardware for tomb-dwellers.”

     He grabbed an abandoned crate nearby and propped it against the wall, using it as a footstool to reach the wire better.  He stared at it in interest, picking at the white connections.

     “Should you be messing with electrical wiring without safety equipment?” Charon dead-panned from his spot nearby. 

     “I was hoping that if I could cut their comms, they’d come out to see what the fuck happened.”

     “They probably would.  Armed and shooting.”

     “True,” James conceded, stepping down from the crate. “Hey!  Hey, in there!  I’m friendly, I promise.”

     “That’s reassuring.”

     James ignored him. “Hey!  Professor sent me.  Said you guys needed an extra heavy.  I’m a member of this organization.  Or, at least I was, I had to go dark for a few years – but I’m back now!  I’m back and --”

     He stopped as the medallion began to spin and click.  The wall it was on creaked and moved, sliding back to reveal a large, open room.  James stared in astonishment, squinting against a bright light.  As his eyes adjusted, he saw two women standing about fifty feet away inside the cavernous room.  One was carrying a minigun.

     “So Professor sent you?”

     The unarmed woman lit a cigarette nonchalantly and took a long drag, staring suspiciously at James.  He cleared his throat and nodded.

     “Yeah.  She’s a friend.”

     “Professor has a lot of friends.  Why should I believe you’re one of them?”

     James glanced back at Charon, who shrugged.

     “She sent a crate of supplies,” James said, turning back to the women. “She left them in a cache nearby.  And she said that if you and Carrington are still arguing about Mercer, she agrees with Carrington.”

     The woman carrying the minigun smirked and her companion frowned.

     “Why didn’t Professor come herself?”

     “Something petty like wanting to see her daughter before getting back to work,” James replied dryly, “She’s been away from home for a while.  Look, does it matter?  I’m offering to help.”

     The woman sighed and flicked her cigarette to the side. “Alright, then,” she said, crossing her arms. “I don’t trust you just yet, but if Professor sent you, then you can do her job.”  
     “Her job?”

     “Our best agent has been MIA for three weeks,” the woman said, “He and Professor have run quite a few ops together, so I was going to ask her to track him down.”

     James held in a sigh. “Where should I look?”

     “His last communication was that he was tracking a person of interest to Fort Hagen.”

     “Where the fuck is that?”

     “If you can’t read a map, then you’re probably not a good fit for our organization,” the woman retorted, “Bring Deacon back or find me proof of his death as quickly as you can.”

     She turned on her heel and disappeared into a corridor that led deeper into the tomb.  The woman with the minigun shook her head.

     “If Deacon’s gone, we might have been compromised,” she said, “Desdemona’s a little on edge.  Find him, alright?”

     “I’ll do my best,” James promised, hand over his heart. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, Charon.”

     “You’re not my boss anymore.”

     The minigun-toting woman smirked again. “Name’s Glory, by the way.  What do we call you?”

     “Uh…” James stuttered for a moment, glancing down at his boots.  In his past Railroad days, he’d just gone by J.J., the nickname Sarah had given him.

     “Fixer,” Charon supplied for him after a second.

     Glory nodded. “And you?”

     “That’s my stalwart ghoul manservant, Charon.”

     Charon glared. “I’m an employee of Professor’s.”

     “Whatever,” Glory replied, “You better get moving.”

     Without waiting for a reply, she followed Desdemona back into the tomb.  After a moment, the wall began to slide back into place.  James huffed and picked up his bag.

     “Seventeen ops,” he muttered, “ _Seventeen_ , and they slam the door in my face.”

     “You’ve been dark for six years,” Charon replied, “And if Switchboard is gone, I doubt any of the current players are the same ones you once worked with.”

     “I hate you and your logic.”

     “So I’ve heard.”

 

     Deacon woke slowly, dragging his eyes open with a groan.  His head throbbed and spun and his body ached.  He could hear voices nearby but his brain felt too battered to process what they were saying.

     With effort, he turned his head and squinted.  Iron bars, a large, dim room.  Makeshift grow lights and lots of potted plants.  He was back where he’d started.  Damn.

     “…they’ll all do the same thing, essentially,” someone said, “Just twist this knob…”

     Deacon forced himself to roll to his side, ignoring the pain in his head as he propped himself up on one elbow.  A stimpak and a few bottles of water had been deposited just inside the door of his cell.  He reached for one of the bottles and emptied it, slopping some onto his face accidentally.  It was warm and stale, but it washed away the bloody aftertaste stuck to his tongue.

     “So no permanent damage?”

     It was the raider chick he had seen when trying to escape the fort.  As his dizziness began to wane a bit, he sat up slowly and tried to take stock of what was going on.

     His leg was still attached and not actively bleeding.  His wrists were swollen and sore as hell, but he could move them.  He heard a buzzing in his ears and the lights hurt his eyes, but he wasn’t blind or deaf.  All in all, he’d been in worse scrapes before.

     He reached for the stimpak and stabbed it into his uninjured leg.  Warmth flooded him as he depressed the plunger and he leaned back against the cell wall with a sigh of relief.

     “Dizziness, hallucinations, aggression,” Clayton was saying, “Records say it’ll wear off after eight hours or so but I don’t recommend breathing it in at all.”

     Deacon frowned to himself.  What the fuck were these people planning?

     “We lost the whole squad that went in to Hallucigen unprotected,” another voice, a familiar one, added. “These masks will help.”

     He heard a heavy clunk and opened his eyes.  Clayton was standing at a workbench with the two raiders and the one-eyed old Gunner that had visited before.  Several tall, metal canisters were clustered together on the table between them, unmarked except for bits of duct tape covered in writing he couldn’t make out from his cell.

     “You know what kind of fun we could have with these?” the male raider asked his blue-haired companion, tipping one of the canisters to read the label.  He was grinning malevolently.

     “Plenty of fun,” the woman replied, her mouth curling. “What would it take to get you to keep making these for us?”

     Clayton glanced over at his Gunner friend, who returned her feral smile. “Bring me MacCready and we’ll get you as many as you want.”

     Deacon swallowed hard as fear flooded his stomach.  What did they want with MacCready?  What were they going to do to Sanctuary to get him?


	38. Tears

     “I know you’re under there, love.”

     Nora squeezed her eyes closed and sighed, pulling the blanket closer around her.  She was curled up under it in fetal position, fully dressed except her boots and armor, and she was _still_ freezing.

     “I wasn’t trying to hide.”

     “Come on out.”

     “I don’t wanna.”

     In truth, she wasn’t sure she could move from her spot without tossing her cookies.  What she’d thought was seasickness had waned briefly in her excitement at being home, then returned with a vengeance the night they got back to Sanctuary.  She’d spiked another fever and wasn’t sleeping.

     The dream about the babies had returned.

     And she had skipped two periods.

     Sterile husband or not, something was very wrong.  She knew she needed to talk to Curie or Haylen immediately, but she couldn’t seem to drag herself from her cocoon where the nausea was finally manageable.

     “Madame?”

     She felt the edge of the mattress dip and bit her tongue as her stomach rolled.  He’d brought Curie to her.

     “Madame, I need to be able to see you to complete a physical examination.”

     “Come on, love.  You can’t just sit and suffer.”

     Nora sighed and pulled the blanket back slowly.  A sour taste rose in her throat as she forced herself to sit up.  Curie, sitting on the corner of the bed with her bag in her lap, peered closely at her.

     “You look quite ill, madame.”

     “I feel quite ill.”

     Curie nodded and glanced at Hancock, who stood in the doorway, brow creased in worry.

     “You may leave now,” she informed him, standing and placing her bag on a chair nearby.

     “Leave?”

     “I value my patients’ privacy and autonomy,” Curie informed him loftily, standing and striding over to the door. “You may come back later.”

     Hancock glanced at Nora, looking affronted, but left before Curie could close the door in his face.  Satisfied, she returned to the bed and Nora gave her a weak smile.

     “He could have stayed.”

     “It’s easier to conduct an examination without people looking over my shoulder,” Curie replied, “Even when they mean well.”

     Nora nodded as Curie rifled through her bag, pulling out a little notebook and pen.

     “Now.  Tell me your symptoms, madame.”

     “I feel like I’ve been bingeing on Longneck Lukowski’s.”

     Curie furrowed her brows. “So…nausea?”

     “I can barely keep anything down,” Nora replied, “In the brief moments I feel normal, I’m starving, but I throw it all up an hour later.”

     “Anything else?”

     “Stomach cramps.  I think a fever.  I’m exhausted.”

     Curie nodded, scribbling in her notebook. “Have you been exposed to radiation recently?”

     “Nothing abnormal.  And I’ve used a shit-ton of Rad-Away.”

     “Does that help?”

     “A little.”

     “It sounds like you may have picked up a parasite,” Curie said, closing her notebook and setting it aside. “An intestinal parasite would cause all of your symptoms, including the fever.”

     “It’s not something else?”

     “Do you suspect something specific?”

     Nora hesitated a moment, then shook her head.  Curie stared at her for a moment, quite obviously unconvinced.

     “Madame --”

     “You don’t have to call me that, Curie.”

     Curie gave her a gentle smile. “ _Nora_ ,” she amended, “You must be honest with me when it comes to your health.”

     Nora took a deep breath as her stomach lurched and then exhaled slowly. “I’ve missed my last two periods.”

     Curie was silent for a moment, as if waiting to hear the rest, then nodded. “I see.”

     “I know it’s stupid,” Nora said, “I just.  I can’t get it out of my mind.  When I was pregnant the first time, I felt the same.  I was sick one minute and then starving the next and I was always having these weird dreams.”

     “You are having abnormal dreams?”

     Nora rubbed her forehead and explained the dream about the babies, the screaming children in the crib and everyone demanding to know what the infant girl’s name was, Shaun standing nearby and declaring himself a copy and telling her someone would come to take Anne.

     Curie listened patiently without commenting.  When she had said all she could, Nora sagged on the mattress and closed her eyes.

     “It sounds like you have been under quite a bit of stress,” Curie said. 

     “Really?” Nora asked, massaging her forehead. “What makes you say that?”

     “I can run a test for you,” Curie said, “I must take a blood sample to Diamond City, but I can have results for you in a few days.”

     “You don’t think I’m insane?”

     Curie furrowed her brow in puzzlement. “It is insane to consider the possibility that a healthy, sexually active woman in her childbearing years might be pregnant?”

     “I’m only sexually active with Hancock.”

     Curie nodded. “I see,” she said, “And ghouls are supposed to be sterile.”

     “ _Supposed_ to be?” Nora repeated in alarm, “Curie, do you know something I don’t?”

     “I have no proof regarding the sterility of ghouls one way or the other,” Curie answered, “Until I do, I will consider all possibilities.”

     “Do…do you think it is possible?  For a ghoul to have a child?”

     Curie shrugged. “If you think of ghoulification as an evolutionary defense mechanism, then it makes little sense to render the evolved specimen sterile, as that would prevent the parent from passing on the genes that render him or her immune to radiation, thus continuing the species.”

     “Right.”

     “A large part of the ghoul population is also very old,” Curie continued with a smile, “Well past their ‘prime’, so to speak.  That, coupled with the social stigma of being a ghoul, much less being in a relationship with one, would strictly limit the birth rate.”

     Nora swallowed and felt very dizzy.

     “However, radiation has been known the render some humans sterile,” Curie added, “So my suppositions may be entirely wrong.  I need to complete more studies with sperm and blood samples, but as of now I do not have the proper supplies --”

     “Is this you asking me again for a microscope?”

     Curie blushed and looked away. “No, madame, I was not trying to pester you…”

     “Curie, I’m teasing,” Nora replied, “As always, I will keep a look out.”

     “Well, until then, I’ll need to take your samples down to Diamond City,” Curie said, “Dr. Sun is very generous and allows me to use his equipment.  I can check for infection and pregnancy.”

     “So, do I need to pee in a cup?”

     “I need blood and stool samples.”

     “That’s really gross, Curie.”

     “That is medical science, madame,” Curie quipped with a smile, “In the meantime, I will give you a broad-spectrum antibiotic.  Rest and drink lots of purified water…”

     Twenty minutes later, Curie had left and Nora was back in her cocoon, staring at the wall and rubbing the spot on her arm where she’d gotten a shot of antibiotics.  Her nausea had waned some and she was hungry again, but didn’t dare do anything but sip the water Hancock had left her.  She shifted under the blanket and slipped a hand under her shirt and over her stomach.  Just beneath the waistband of her jeans, she could feel the smooth ridge of a scar that stretched between her hipbones. 

     Her throat went painfully dry for a moment as anxiety and sadness warred in her mind, but she was saved by a quiet knock on the door.

     “Mom?”

     Shaun peeked in and Nora smiled.

     “Come here, sweetheart.”

     “Are you feeling better?” he asked, climbing into the bed next to her.  She smiled as he curled up against her.

     “A little bit,” she said, “I’ll be alright.  I missed you while we were gone.”

     “I missed you, too,” he answered, pulling her arms around him. “Can…can I ask you a question?”

     “Ask away.”

     “What happened to Grandma?”

     Guilt rolled over Nora like a hot wave.  In all the commotion of returning home and being sick, she hadn’t stopped to explain anything to him.

     “She…she died, Shaun,” she said after a moment, “A few months ago.”

     He didn’t say anything for a long time.  Nora waited, squeezing him close and pressing her cheek to the top of his head.  Tears pricked the back of her eyes as memories of lying in bed with her grandmother this way, climbing in next to her as a grown woman when Nate left for Alaska, surfaced in her mind.

     “Mom, is something wrong with me?”

     Nora frowned and shifted as Shaun rolled around to face her. “What do you mean?”

     He looked down, avoiding her eyes. “I feel…kind of sad knowing Grandma died,” he mumbled, “But not…not sad enough to cry.”

     Nora waited as he bit his lip and rushed on. “It’s the same when I think about Dad.  It’s sad and I feel kind of – kind of _down_ but it doesn’t make me want to cry the way you do sometimes.  Why can’t I cry?  Is it because I’m a synth?”

     He looked up at her, watery-eyed, and Nora hugged him closer. “Oh, sweetheart, nothing is wrong with you,” she whispered as her heart broke for him, “Nothing at all is wrong with you.”

     “But people are supposed to cry when someone dies.”

     “I know, sweetheart,” she replied, “But sometimes, you can be sad without being sad enough to cry.”

     Shaun didn’t respond, burying his face against Nora’s chest.  She sighed and sat up, pulling him with her so they were sitting cross-legged, facing each other on the bed.

     “There is nothing at all wrong with you, Shaun,” Nora said firmly, “Nothing, understand?  Yes, you are a synth, but whatever that might mean, I will always love you.”

     “Even if I don’t cry?”

     “Even if you don’t cry.”

     Shaun leaned forward and hugged her again, squeezing himself into her lap like a toddler.  He was heavy enough to make her legs go numb and his elbow was jutting painfully into her sensitive stomach, but she couldn’t bring herself to make him move.  After a few minutes of silence, she shifted and lied back on the pillows, still holding her son close.  He had drifted to sleep and within minutes, she had, too.

 

     She woke up in pitch darkness, sweating and parched with thirst.  Shaun was no longer in bed beside her; a bare-chested Hancock had replaced him.  Normally she relished the warmth he gave off, like her own personal furnace, but now it was stifling.  Her fever must have broken.

     Nora pushed Hancock away, ignoring his mumbled protest, and rolled out of bed.  She stripped out of her sweaty jeans and shirt, sighing in relief when the cool night air hit her damp skin.  In the silence, she heard a faint cry of distress and the whirring of Codsworth’s fusion engine.

     Dressed in a ratty t-shirt and shorts, she padded out into the hall towards Anne’s room.  Codsworth met her at the door with a full bottle.

     “Is she still waking up at night?”

     “Only occasionally, ma’am,” Codsworth replied, “If you need more rest, I am perfectly happy to --”

     Anne wailed again, louder and more insistent this time. “No need; I missed taking care of her.”

     She took the bottle from Codsworth and lifted her out of the crib, but Anne shook her head furiously and opted instead to curl into her shoulder with a thumb shoved securely into her mouth.  Nora smiled to herself as she hugged her closer.

     “What time is it?”

     “Three twenty-four in the morning, ma’am.”

     “Fuck, I slept for…?”

     “Thirteen hours and six minutes, I believe.”

     Nora shook her head. “Can you make some of Haylen’s hubflower tea?  I don’t think I’m going to get back to sleep tonight.”

     “Of course,” Codsworth replied and whizzed away into the kitchen.  Anne still clinging to her, Nora headed out to the living room.  George was sitting in her chair by the window, a book open on his lap.

     “Doing alright, sweetheart?”

     “Much better,” Nora said, falling onto the couch. “Not sleeping tonight?”

     “Nah,” George replied with a shrug, “Dreaming too much.”

     “Dreaming?”

     “Silly stuff,” George said, waving his hand dismissively. “No big deal.”

     Nora had the niggling feeling he was lying to her, but pushed it aside as Anne shifted and fussed into her shirt.  She offered her the bottle again and this time she took it gratefully, latching ferociously on to the rubber nipple.  Nora shifted her and stared down at the little girl, brushing back the brown curls that had gotten thicker and wilder in her absence.  Dreams be damned – Shaun wasn’t a copy and there was no way they were giving Anne up to anyone.

     “Good lord, Nora, what happened to you?”

     Nora looked up, bewildered.  George was staring in shock at her leg, the mangled one covered in pitted, slashing scars from knee to hip.

     “Oh,” she said, “Mutant hound.”

     “Did it use you as a teething ring?”

     “Just about,” Nora replied ruefully, shaking away her memories of that attack, of Hancock holding her down while MacCready and Preston dug teeth out of her skin and stitched her up.

     George shook his head, brow furrowed sympathetically.  Anne sucked loudly on her bottle and Codsworth tinkered in the kitchen as the sweet smell of hubflower tea filled the room.  Just as he was handing her a chipped, steaming mug, Dogmeat burst through the door with a frantic bark.  Anne jumped and cried as he rushed to Nora, nosing her hand and whining.

     “What’s the matter, boy?”

     Dogmeat whined and paced back to the door, ears flattened.  Nora frowned.

     “Grandpa, take Anne for a minute,” she said, standing and handing over the baby.  Dogmeat whimpered and circled her legs.

     “What’s wrong?”

     “I don’t know, but if he’s upset, something’s going on.  Codsworth, get Hancock up.”

     Nora bent briefly and reached under the coffee table, grabbing the 10mm she had secured there.  She could feel her grandfather’s eyes on her but ignored it.

     “What’s going on, Dogmeat?”

     He rushed out the door and let out a loud, angry bark, startling her into action.  She stepped out onto the front stoop and glanced around in the darkness.  Dogmeat had rushed down the lane towards some commotion; just as she made to follow him, a metal canister arced through the darkness and landed heavily at her feet, belching a foul-smelling green gas.


	39. Target Practice

     Nora gasped as the acrid gas met her nostrils, dropping her gun with a clatter as she scrambled to cover her face with her shirt.  She felt Hancock’s hand grab her arm and yank her backwards inside the house.

     “Now they’re fucking getting crafty,” he muttered, slamming the door.  Nora responded with a gag and tried not to throw up on his feet.

     “What’s going on?” Shaun stood at the end of the hallway, wide-eyed in his pajamas.  Nora opened her mouth to say something, but her swollen throat forced out only a croak.

     “Take your sister and get somewhere safe,” George answered, standing and handing Anne to him.  Hancock nodded in agreement.

     “The cellar, Shaun, now,” he said, “Take this.”

     He handed him a pipe pistol.  Nora felt her heart rate pick up as her son nodded and took the gun, tucking it in his waistband with Anne crying into his shoulder.  _He’s too young, he’s not ready –_

     “We’ll talk about it later,” Hancock answered dryly to her croaking protests, “Here, breathe.”

     She jerked back as he shoved something over her face.  A mask of some sort, rubber straps digging into her chin and forehead.  She took as deep a breath as her scorched lungs could manage and only breathed stale metal.

     “What,” she gasped out, “the fuck?”

     “Can you still shoot?” Hancock asked, his voice muffled as he pulled a mask over his own head.  George was already wearing one.

     “I’m good.”

     Hancock nodded as George disappeared into the dark hallway and returned with three shotguns.  Nora took hers and caught his eye for a moment, but looked away quickly.

     She checked that it was loaded just as the door burst open with a crash, nearly flying off the hinges.  Her bookshelves shook and several tomes fell to the floor as a raider strode in, rifle lifted at them.  Nora felt the tiny rush of hot air as a bullet missed her left ear and pinged into the metal wall behind her.  She fired but missed center mass, pellets catching the raider’s arm.  Blood sprayed across the furniture and wall.

     “Get the fuck out, asshole!” Hancock yelled as he shot.  The blast rang in Nora’s ears and the raider crumpled, his torso a shredded pile of blood and tissue leaking over the entryway.  Nora swallowed away her queasiness and stepped over the body to get a handle on what was happening outside.

     There wasn’t the usual chaos and confusion of a raider attack, just the haze of green smoke and lots of yelling.  Nora padded into the darkness, shotgun ready, her heart pounding and throat burning with the gaseous residue.  She could barely see through the cloud as it hung in the air like some noxious fog.

     She had barely gone twenty feet when she ran turned and ran headlong into something; panicking, she stumbled back and lifted her gun, finger on the trigger.

     “Easy, kiddo, or you’re going to turn me into scrap metal.”

     Nora let out a relieved breath as a familiar pair of yellow eyes shined in the haze.  Nick stepped closer to her, holding his own pistol towards the ground.

     “We have to get the settlers out of here,” he said, “This gas isn’t doing anyone any favors.”

     “They can evacuate to the Red Rocket.”

     “No-go, that one’s been gassed, too,” Nick replied, “I was about to leave there when all hell broke loose.  Cait’s alright.”

     The question died in Nora’s throat as she tried to think.  Abernathy was too far to take a mass of scared settlers in the middle of the night, and the cellars were too small now to house everyone.

     “The vault,” she said after a moment, “Can you start getting everyone in there?”

     “Sure thing.”

     He held her gaze for a moment and then nodded, knowing she wasn’t going to follow.  She heard more yelling and took off towards it, her bare feet catching on the broken concrete as she ran.  The gas cleared a bit as she came up to the house Haylen and MacCready used; the light in the front was on and she could hear Duncan yelling inside.

     The sight that greeted her was bewildering – Haylen stood at the far end of the room, holding one of MacCready’s rifles to her shoulder as she visibly shook and blood ran down her face from her nose.  Duncan clung to her waist, sobbing into her shirt, as Danse approached with a drawn pipe pistol.  He stood hunched into himself, shifting and muttering and waving the pistol erratically.  Nora stared in shock for a second before yelling his name.

     He turned on her immediately, wobbling like a drunk.  His nose was bleeding, too, and his eyes were bulging and red.

     “You!” he hissed.  He lurched towards her, dropping the pistol, and before she had time to react, he’d closed the distance between them and wrapped his hands around her neck.

     Nora gasped as his thumbs dug into her neck and spots danced in front of her eyes.  He squeezed as she flailed, her shotgun falling from her grip.  Panic flooded her and her heart pounded painfully against her breastbone; she kicked out desperately and felt her knee connect with flesh.  Danse grunted in pain and loosened his grip long enough for her to suck in a gasp of air.  He didn’t let go, pushing her back so they stumbled on the front step.

     She felt her head hit the wet dirt with a dull thud, the weight of Danse’s much larger, heavier frame crushing her.  His knee dug into her hip as he squeezed her throat, muttering unintelligibly to himself.

     “Paladin!” Haylen screamed, bringing the butt of the rifle down over his back.  He snarled but didn’t let go of Nora.  She was scratching at him desperately, trying to hit him, but he was too big for her to even reach or move.  Blackness clouded her peripheral vision and her muscles were burning and screaming when a boot swung over and connected with Danse’s jaw.  The force of the kick dislodged him enough for her to gasp a breath; she saw a pair of hands reach down and lift Danse by the shirt and throw him aside.

     Nora gasped and coughed as pain exploded behind her eyes, like her skull had suddenly become an overloaded pressure cooker.  Her chest hurt and her limbs felt as though her bones had turned to lead.  She sucked in air and felt Haylen pulling her up into a sitting position.

     “I’m so sorry, Nora,” she was saying, her voice close to her ear. “I was afraid if I tried to shoot him I’d miss and hit you --”

     Nora tried to speak but nothing came out, her throat burning worse than when she had gotten a mouthful of the gas.

     “Don’t try to talk, he probably damaged your larynx,” Haylen said, “Deep, slow breaths.  Slow.”

     She did as she was told, coughing on every breath as the pain in her head eased the tiniest bit.

     “She needs a stimpak, you idiot,” she heard someone say.  A gnarled hand brushed her hair out of her face and she opened her eyes to see George knelt in front of her, brow furrowed deep.  She looked over and saw Danse lying in a crumpled heap.  He shifted and groaned.  George scowled and pulled a pistol from his waistband.

     “No,” Nora gasped.  The effort made her breathless and her throat burned like she had gargled razorblades.  George hesitated and Nora shook her head furiously.  She knew now what the gas was; she and MacCready had dealt with it once before, but she couldn’t make the words come out to explain that Danse was hallucinating.

     “Rope,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Seeing things --”

     She sucked in a deep breath and devolved into a coughing fit as her lungs spasmed painfully.  She felt a prick in her shoulder and Haylen’s thumb massaging the injection site.  She tried to say something but her head began throbbing again.  Warmth flooded through her from the Stimpak and she felt suddenly sleepy.  Her eyelids dragged down and she let go as she felt George lift her up from the ground and to his chest.

 

     Charon woke with a start as a gun went off nearby.  He reached for his shotgun and launched himself to his feet, tense as he kicked open the door of their shack.  The gun fired again and a bullet pinged off metal.

     “Son of a bitch!”

     Charon felt himself sag.  They weren’t under attack; James was trying to shoot cans off of a makeshift range made from cracked cinderblocks.  By his swearing and the rifle lying in the dirt, he was failing spectacularly.

     The vault kid strode angrily to his targets and knocked them all down with one sweep of his arm, swearing as they clattered to the ground.  Charon let his gun fall and watched as he kicked over the cinderblock wall next.

     “What?  Come to laugh at the spectacle?” he snarled when he noticed Charon watching him. “Hope you’re fucking enjoying yourself.”

     He punctuated the last sentence with a kick to the rifle, sending it flying through the dead grass.  Charon mused briefly on how much he had changed in twelve years, from a smooth-faced, wide-eyed kid in an oversized vault suit to a tall, bearded man who looked the spitting image of his father.  Still the same temper, however.

     “You need to start with something simpler,” Charon replied.

     “What?”

     “If you want to learn to shoot properly, a scoped sniper rifle isn’t a good starting choice,” Charon said, “Get a small caliber handgun and then move up to rifles and shotguns.”

     James glared at him. “If a prewar softie can handle the scoped rifle, I can, too.”

     “Nora has been under the tutelage of a professional sniper for two years,” Charon answered calmly, “Her first gun was also a small caliber pistol.”

     James snorted in disgust and looked away.  Charon glanced down at the scar on his hand, four symmetrical, fork-sized puncture wounds, and smiled to himself.  He could finally make James listen.

     “You can listen to me,” he said, “And learn, or you can head to Fort Hagen on your own and get yourself killed.”

     James scowled but didn’t offer a retort.  They had made it to Fort Hagen the day before and found it crawling with raiders and booby-traps, far too many for them to take on alone when James was still best with melee weapons.  Defeated, they had retreated to a safe house south of the fort, a little shack with a Railroad cache, to regroup and try to make their next move.  James had been in a foul mood since.

     “Fine,” he spat after a long silence, “Teach me, oh great master.”

     Charon ignored the snark, knowing James did it to bait him into a reaction. “Fix the targets.”

     He dug through their supplies, looking for a suitable training gun as James undoubtedly made faces at his turned back, and came up with a small pipe revolver, a .38 caliber that would have very little recoil.  He inspected it and, satisfied that it was in working order, took it and a box of ammunition out to where James stood with his arms crossed like a petulant child.

     “That’s _tiny_ ,” he complained when Charon handed him the revolver. “That’s not going to kill a bloatfly.”

     “This is approximately .38 inches of solid metal,” Charon replied, holding out one round. “Lead inner with a brass casing.  It will leave the barrel of the gun going well over 1,000 feet per second.  Would you want that much pressure slamming into your breastbone?”

     James quirked an eyebrow and Charon could tell he was trying to do the math. “No,” he replied reluctantly.

     “No, you wouldn’t,” Charon agreed, “Load it.  Quickly.”

     James fumbled with the rounds, dropping several as he tried to slide them into the revolver.  Charon sighed internally.  They’d have to work on that later; marksmanship was more important at the moment.

     “Alright, stand up straight,” he instructed, “Your posture is shit.  Feet apart.”

     James threw him a dirty look but did as he was told.  Charon looked him up and down.

     “Your grip is shit,” he added, “Straighten your arms to absorb the recoil.  _Straighten_ them.  Good.”

     “This isn’t boot camp.”

     “No, this is Get It Wrong Once And You Die Camp.”

     “Fair enough.”

     “Close one eye if you have to while aiming,” Charon continued, “Line your target up with the lowest part of the V.”

     “The V?”

     “The V on the end of the barrel,” Charon sighed, “The sight.”

     “Oh.”

     “I thought you had been taught at least a little on how to shoot.”

     “I wasn’t very good,” James replied, “And I guess I’ve forgotten a lot.”

     Charon shook his head but plowed on. “Keep your finger out of the trigger guard until you’re ready to fire.  Don’t hold your breath or you’ll tense up.”

     “Sir, yes sir.”

     Charon ground his teeth as a dozen memories of Marine recruits struggled to surface at those words, but he shoved them violently under.

     James sighted his target and hesitated a moment, then squeezed the trigger.  Charon winced at the crack and ping as a can spun and fell off the cinderblock wall.  James had winged it.

     “Holy shit, I got it,” he said, astonished. “I got it.”

     “Barely,” Charon corrected, “Again.  Don’t hesitate.”

     He expected a quip or joke from James, but nothing came.  The vault kid nodded and lined up the next shot.  The can went flying off the wall.

     “Again.”

     Another can fell.

     “Again.”

     One shot at a time, James took down all the cans.

     “Damn,” he muttered, staring at the empty target range in astonishment. “I’ve never been that good, Charon.”

     “You’re not good yet,” Charon told him, “But maybe you won’t die out there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo sorry for the slower-than-usual updates! Been low on spoons lately. Hope you enjoy this update!


	40. Wasteland Rules

     “Doesn’t look like she really knows what she’s doing,” Renee muttered in his ear, her voice low and frustrated in the echoing din.  George suppressed a sigh as he took in the general chaos – two dozen adults, a dog, two infants, two young boys, that weird robot thing, and himself, crammed into the vault’s little cafeteria, trying to settle and make sense of what had just happened.

     “She said Sanctuary was safe,” Jane added with a shake of her head, “She’s leaving her _children_ here?  With _that_ hanging around?”

     George glanced over at Nora.  She was standing over the man that had tried to strangle her, opposite the blonde woman who had done little to nothing to stop it, talking in her low croak as she rubbed the bright blue bruises on her throat.

     “…it’s a pre-war company called Hallucigen,” he heard her saying, “Real nasty shit.  Mac and I will tell you the story when we get back.”

     The man – the _paladin_ – tried to sit up and Nora pushed him back with a shake of her head.  George clenched his fist and bit his tongue.  She had mentioned the former scribe, but not the paladin.  Did she really think they could be trusted?

     He caught her eye briefly but she didn’t acknowledge him.  She said something else to the scribe and then turned, walking past him over to Hancock and her friend Preston, both of whom had managed to take bullets during the chaos.  He watched as she said something to Hancock, checked the bandage on his shoulder and kissed him briefly, then made for the exit.

     George glanced around, checking that Shaun was still seated off in the corner with some of the other settlers, then stood and hurried after Nora.  He caught up to her as she was opening the blast doors.

     “Where are you going?”

     “Getting out of here,” she rasped, “Got to get my stuff.”

     “It’s not safe up there.”

     “I’ll take my chances,” she answered, hurrying down the stairs towards the exit elevator. “I’ve spent as long as I can take down here.”

     George followed, biting back his frustration.  _She’s getting reckless_ , Renee whispered in his ear.

     “Where are you going?” he asked as the elevator lurched to take them to the surface.  Nora gave a frustrated sigh and pulled a note from her pocket, thrusting it at him.  He looked down in confusion and unfolded it.

     _Got the mercenary.  Get him back at Fort Hagen.  General only._

     “What is…?”

     “Someone broke into MacCready and Haylen’s,” Nora said, “Tossed in a can of the gas.  Haylen went to grab Duncan and they kidnapped Mac.”

     “Who is MacCready?”

     They emerged into the crisp dawn light and the elevator stopped with a loud scrape of metal on metal.  Nora shaded her eyes and paused for a moment, looking down the hill into the abandoned settlement.  Something dark flitted over her face but was gone in a moment.

     More stuff she wouldn’t share with him.

     “MacCready is a friend,” she said, leading the way down into Sanctuary. “A mercenary I hired a while back.”

     “You’re friends with mercenaries?”

     She stopped halfway along the dirt path into Sanctuary and whirled on him, scowling.

     “Don’t you fucking dare,” she said, her voice still raspy but quite obviously angry.

     “Nora, I just…”

     “No,” she snapped, “You don’t get to make judgements, you hypocrite.”

     George stood there, flabbergasted.  Her words stung as surely as if she had slapped him.

     “Let’s get a few things straight right now,” she continued, narrowing her eyes at him. “First of all, I’m a grown-ass woman who can her own decisions and I don’t need you to interfere, apocalypse or not.”

     “I wasn’t trying to interfere, Nora,” he said, his frustration rising. “I’m worried about you, sweetheart.”

     “Were you worried about me when you let Lyssa break my ribs?”

     George felt his gut curl.  He’d been high, certain he was all alone –

     “That’s what I thought.”

     “Nora, I thought you were dead.  How could I have known?”

     She scoffed and shook her head. “I’m not going to argue with you, but just try to remember that in addition to kicking me around, you and your goon squad kidnapped my husband and three other innocent people, tortured them, and tried to kill them.”

     “I only wanted to make them understand.”

     Nora turned in disgust and continued walking without saying another word.  George ran and grabbed her arm, twirling her back to him.

     “Nora, talk to me.”

     She yanked her arm away. “About what?” she yelled, her voice cracking. “About the fact that a raider boss who tortured a man to death is trying to tell me I shouldn’t be friends with a mercenary?”

     “This isn’t the old world, you can’t trust people…”

     “I trust MacCready with my life,” she interrupted, “I have trusted him with my life.”

     She yanked down her shirt to expose her collarbone and a puckered white bullet scar on it. “He saved my life when a raider got me,” she said, then lifted the hem of her shirt and pointed at another scar, a burn along the bottom of her ribs. “A mutant suicider caught me by surprise a few months ago.  Danse pushed me out of the way and took the brunt of the heat.  He’s a peerless soldier and a decent person.”

     “He’s a Brotherhood Paladin.”

     “He was,” Nora agreed, “Until they found out he was a synth and tried to execute him.”

     “He’s a…”

     “A synth,” Nora repeated, “Like Nick.  And Curie.  And _my son_.”

     “Nora, I don’t…”

     “Know a damn thing?”

     George stopped, feeling defeated and angry at once, like a kicked dog.

     “This is my life now,” she said, lifting her arm in a sweep to indicate the settlement behind her. “Those people in the vault are my family, and one of them has been kidnapped.  I’m going to go get him back now.”

     “Nora,” George called after her, “I’m – I’m sorry.”

     “Give your apologies to Haylen for calling her an idiot.”

     He hesitated a moment and then continued following after her, up the muddy path to the main road.

     “At least tell me you aren’t going to go alone,” he said, waving the raiders’ note.

     “I’m not stupid,” she answered, “They always say ‘come alone’ and I always take someone and so far I’ve got a perfect record against raiders.”

     “Let me come with you, then.”

     She led the way into the common house and straight for the radio, sliding into a chair and flipping switches.

     “Can you keep up?”

     “Hey, I may be old,” George said, “But I’m not slow.  Not yet.”

     He thought he saw the quirk of a smile on her face but it disappeared as she began twisting the tuning knob.

     “Castle, this is Nora Wilson in Sanctuary Hills,” she said into the microphone, “Come in, Castle.”

     “This is the Castle,” a voice answered back, “Mornin’, General.  Everything alright there?”

     “We had an attack,” Nora replied, “No casualties but my best guys are down.  I need back-up ASAP.”

     “How many?”

     “Three or four if we can spare them.”

     There was a pause on the other end and the sound of muffled voices talking to each other.  After a moment, someone came back on, a gruff female voice.

     “General, it’s Ronnie.  You guys need some help?”

     “Whoever you can spare.”

     “I’ll come myself,” Ronnie replied over the radio, her voice crackling in and out. “See how this new vertibird works.”

     “Alright.  Have Matthew put out a notice to the settlements that we’ve got raiders running around with gas.  Everyone needs to grab masks and beef up their patrols.  We also need to send a team downtown to clear out the old Hallucigen building.”

     “We’ll get it done.  Anything else?”

     “I’ll tell you when you get here.”

     “Sounds good, General.”

     Nora hung up the microphone and sighed. “I need to get ready to go.”

     “Mind if we tag along?”

     George jumped and turned.  Haylen and Nick Valentine were waiting in the doorway and Nora smiled gratefully.

     “Not at all,” she said, “Everyone’s good in the vault?”

     “Good as they can be,” Haylen replied, “You know normally I would stay behind…”

     Nora nodded as she trailed off, an understanding grimace on her face. “I know.  Let’s go get him back.”

 

     “Hey.  Hey, wake up, MacCready.”

     MacCready jerked away as someone slapped his cheek, struggling to open his eyes.  His head swam for a moment and then a familiar face came into view.

     “Deacon?”

     The spy grinned at him. “Welcome to Fort Hagen, my friend.”

     MacCready groaned. “Where the hell am I?  Why are you here?”

     “They tossed you in here with me about two hours ago,” Deacon replied, “Which is going to be problematic, to be honest, because they didn’t think to provide a second bucket --”

     MacCready sat up, his vision blurring for a moment as memories flooded back to him.  Raiders, a can of gas, someone grabbing him in the dark…

     “Did those raiders _kidnap_ me?” he asked in disbelief, shifting stiffly.  His bad leg protested loudly, his knee creaking like a rusty hinge.

     “Their benefactor grabbed me,” Deacon answered, “If they show up with anyone else, we’ll have the makings of a club.  We can get membership cards printed.”

     MacCready sighed. “Do you take _anything_ seriously?”

     “Not if I can help it.”

     “Great,” MacCready said, rubbing his temples. “This is just great.”

     “Nora’s the original mark,” Deacon replied, dropping his voice. “I think you’re leverage of some sort.”

     “Not entirely true,” a deep voice answered as the door to the room opened.  MacCready pushed himself up, trying to stand, but his leg felt as though the raiders had attempted to kneecap him at some point.  A man strode over to the little cell, leaning nonchalantly on the bars as he leered down at them.  He was older, his hair streaked with gray, a leather eye patch doing little to cover the gnarled mass of scars that covered one side of his face.  MacCready swore under his breath when he recognized him.

     “Barnes.”

     “MacCready,” the man said, his face twisting into a dark leer. “You backstabbing little shit.”

     “What the hell do you want from me?”

     “Just everything you took from me,” Barnes replied, “And maybe some extra.”

     Deacon side-eyed MacCready. “What did you guys do?”

     “We got the Gunners off my back,” MacCready replied, scowling at him. “Wasteland rules, Barnes.”

     “Which is why you’re here now,” Barnes said, “Maybe when we’re done here with you and your boss, we’ll make a stop at Sanctuary to visit that piece of ass you’ve shacked up with.”

     “You touch her or my son and I will break every single bone in your body.”

     “We’ll see about that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *me playing Skyrim*  
> I need my Pip-Boy light! Oh, wait...  
> *draugr stabs me*
> 
> *me playing Fallout*  
> *mashes L2 & R2 furiously* Why won't it fus roh -- oh, right --  
> *raider shoots me*
> 
> Guess I should finish my chapter...


	41. Plans

     It was nearing sundown when James spotted the vertibird approaching from the north, pushing through the afternoon rain straight towards them.  He watched, jacket held over his head, as it skirted Fort Hagen and continued towards them, dipping low as it approached.

     “Looks like your employer decided to stop in for a visit,” he said to Charon, who was sitting at the little table in their hideout shack, turning old glass bottles into cocktails. “You think they heard about the raiders at the fort?”

     “Probably,” Charon replied, “It’s not like they’ve been lying low.”

     The raiders had been especially raucous the previous night; James and Charon had heard the gunshots, breaking glass, and jeering laughter from their hideout a mile away.  It had died down sometime after dawn but there was no mistaking who the new fort inhabitants were.

     James waved as the vertibird passed overhead, dipping lower towards the empty field behind them before stopping to land.  Mud and rain flying everywhere, it landed with an audible thump and the doors slid open, admitting Nora and a small entourage of people.  He recognized her grandfather and Nick Valentine, but there was another woman, a short blonde carrying a Brotherhood-style laser pistol.

     “Fancy seeing you here,” Nora called as the vertibird took off again, leading the group up to the shack.

     “What the hell happened to you?” James asked, gesturing to his throat.  Nora gave him a dark smile.

     “Raiders,” she said, “The ones in the fort, I think.  I thought you guys were going to HQ?”

     “We did,” James answered, “They sent us to track a missing agent, but the raiders have been crawling all over the fort where he was supposed to be last.”

     Nora frowned. “A missing agent?” she repeated sharply, “Which one?”

     “Uh, Deacon, I think --”

     “Deacon is missing?” Nora half-yelled, eyes widening.  James froze in alarm.

     “That’s what Glory and Desdemona said.”

     “For how long?”

     “About two weeks,” James answered cautiously, taking half a step back from Nora. “That’s what they said.  He’s been missing and his last check-in was about looking into something at Fort Hagen.”

     “ _Two weeks_?”

     James nodded and Nora took a huge breath, her face scrunched in barely-contained fury.

     “I’m going to kill her,” she said, letting out the breath slowly. “I’m really going to kill her this time.”

     “Did anyone know what Deacon was looking into at the Fort?” Nick interrupted, placing a hand on Nora’s shoulder. “This is an awfully big coincidence.”

     “What is?”

     “The night before last, raiders attacked Sanctuary,” Nora said, still breathing through her nose like a wounded and pissed-off Brahmin. “They kidnapped a friend of mine, left a note saying I could get him back at Fort Hagen.  You’re sure Glory and Dez said Deacon was there, too?”

     “They didn’t know for certain, just that that was where he was headed,” James replied, “We checked anywhere else he might be – Goodneighbor, Diamond City, a couple safehouses – but didn’t find anything.  He didn’t give anybody any details, just said ‘something at Fort Hagen’.”

     “Paranoid idiot,” Nora muttered, shaking her head. “Alright, then we need to make a plan of attack because if Deacon got involved, this isn’t just some random raider gang screwing around with us.”

     “Deacon’s another friend of yours?” George asked, looking over at Nora.

     “He’ll deny it if you ask him, but yes,” Nora said, “When I get my hands on Dez…”

     “Somebody’s trying to get to you,” George interrupted, “Two of your friends go missing and end up at the same place?  Like Nick said, that’s a hell of a coincidence.”

     “As much as I hate to agree with him, Nora,” James said, giving George a pointed look. “He’s right.  Maybe you should hang back in case this is a trap.”

     Nora felt the curious looks Nick and Haylen gave her and James. “Like hell I’m hanging back,” she said with a scowl, “I’m capable of keeping myself alive.”

     “You are,” Charon spoke up, startling everyone. “But, as much as I am loath to agree with James _or_ George, they are right.”

     “I feel like there’s a lot of subtext you and I are missing here,” Nick stage-whispered to Haylen.

     “I’m not staying behind!” Nora snapped, giving them all dirty looks.

     “Well, I’ll play devil’s advocate and say that Nora _is_ the only one who has actually been inside that fort anytime recently,” Nick responded, earning himself a grateful smile. “What do you remember of the layout?”

     “Enough,” Nora replied, “Unless the new inhabitants have done some serious remodeling, it’s not complicated.”

 

     “There are three main levels underneath the ground floor,” Nora explained, “Three entrances.  The front, the rooftop access, and then access through the parking garage.”

     She pointed to three spots marked with neat Xs on her drawing of the fort, done in chalk on the rickety wood floor of the shack.

     “The front entrance is blocked up,” Charon said, “Practically bricked over.  The raiders have been sleeping in the parking garage.”

     “Are there turrets on the roof?”

     “Not that I saw, but they have sentries up there.”

     Nora bit her lip and stared at her map, head tilted in contemplation. “How many?”

     “Two or three, usually.”

     “Alright,” she said, “The roof access and the parking garage meet up in a stairwell here.  We split up, clear ‘em out, and regroup there before heading down.”

     “There are way too many in the garage for three people,” James protested, “Even good shots.  This is a pretty big gang, Nora.”

     “We’re not going to engage them in a closed space,” Nora said, “We’ll take a page out of their own book and smoke them out.  Herd them where we want them to go.”

     “What’ve you got up your sleeve?” Nick asked, lifting an eyebrow at her.  She swung her bag off her back and unzipped it, revealing a pile of frag mines.

     “They’ll know we’re here because of the vertibird,” she said, “But we’ve got lots of cover in the ruins.  If we can take out a few of them with these, then we can shoot the rest.”

     “What about any in the lower levels of the complex?” Haylen asked, “There could be just as many or more there.  And we don’t know where they’ve got our people stashed.”

     “Which is why I’m going to need you guys to be fast and accurate,” Nora replied, “And quiet.  The layout is pretty simple and we can stick together once we get inside.”

     “You’re sure this is a good idea, Nora?” George asked, brow furrowed at her. 

     “I don’t exactly have the luxury of waiting for a better one.”

     “So, how are we splitting up?” James asked, “Where do we all go?”

     “Two of us take the long way around and get the roof lookouts,” Nora said, “The rest of us will take the group in the garage.  Two setting the traps, two with the smoke bombs.”

     “We’re making smoke bombs?” James asked, face lighting up like a child who had been told there was a present waiting for him. “We used to make those in the Vault to get out of school early.”

     “No wonder you got yourself kicked out,” Charon said dryly.

     “I didn’t get kicked out, I escaped,” James protested.  Nora cleared her throat.

     “Then you can get started on those,” she said, “Everyone else is pretty evenly matched skill-wise, I think?”

     “You’re the best sniper,” Haylen said, “If RJ’s been teaching you, anyway.”

     “Alright, I’ll take the roof,” Nora replied, “Everyone else, we’ll pair randomly.  Can we keep our respective opinions to ourselves for a few hours if we do that?”

     She glanced at her grandfather, who didn’t meet her gaze.

     “We’re all adults,” Nick interjected, “I think we can play together just fine.”

     “Alright, then,” she said, then took a small notebook and pencil out of the side pocket of her bag and scribbled something on it.  She then tore the paper into four rough pieces, crumpled them, and set them in the middle of the chalk drawing.

     “Grab a name and let’s get moving.  Not you, James, you’ve already got an assignment --”

     “Looks like it’s me and you, Big Guy,” Nick said, patting Charon’s shoulder.  Charon stiffened at the touch but didn’t say anything.

     “You guys take the mines,” Nora said, “Hide them as best you can along the road right outside the garage.”

     “You and me, Nora,” Haylen said, standing and adjusting her own bag. “Everyone, please take at least one stimpak with you…”

     Nick and Charon, her and Haylen, which left –

     “Oh, fun,” James deadpanned, looking over at George. “Nora, you owe me one.”

     “Add it to the list,” she said, “Alright, guys.  I told Sturges to come back in six hours if he hadn’t heard from us.  In this pocket are signal grenades for the vertibird and my Pip-Boy can call for help, too.  Just hit this red button and it’ll send an emergency signal directly to Sanctuary.”

     “Make sure you know who you’re shooting at so we don’t hit the wrong people,” Nick said, “Don’t want to send all this work down the drain.”

     Nora nodded and stuffed an extra clip of ammo into her back pocket.  Whoever wanted her attention had gotten it.


	42. All This For One Woman

     It was still raining when Sturges landed the vertibird at the Red Rocket, a steady drizzle that made everything gray and miserable.  It had begun raining the day before and refused to let up, the fog and wind making it impossible for him to get the bird in the sky more than a few feet.  The whole area was flooded, pools of water collecting in even the slightest divots and running down the road into Concord like a stream.

     Sturges cut the engine and hopped out, sinking into the muck almost to the ankles with a heavy squelch.  The old filling station was mostly empty without the usual caravans, but he could see a few lights on inside.  Even if Cait wasn’t opening for the evening, he knew he could get a drink from her and wait out the clock until he had to get Nora and her crew.

     “Hey, Sturges!”

     Cait rounded the corner before he’d even had a chance to scrape the mud off his boots, her wild red hair frizzled in the humidity.

     “What’s up with the clinic at Sanctuary?”

     “Still closed until Haylen or Curie gets back,” he answered, ducking inside with her. “I mean, someone’s manning the supplies and whatnot, but no actual doctors at the moment.  Why, you need something?”

     Cait shook her head and then jerked a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the back office. “Saw her comin’ up the road outta Concord about an hour ago,” she replied, “Said she was looking for Nora and won’t talk to anybody else, but I think her boy is sick.”

     Sturges frowned and glanced around to where Cait had indicated.  Huddled near the old stove in the back, wrapped in ragged blankets and looking downright miserable, was an older woman and a young boy.  They were both pale and unnaturally thin, clutching half-empty soup bowls.  The woman had her arm around the boy, whose face was flushed and sweaty like he was running a fever.  He looked roughly Shaun’s age, though it was hard to tell.

     “She won’t tell me her name,” Cait said, her voice lowered. “Told her she could hang around here until Nora got back, offered some food and stimpaks and all that.”

     “You don’t know her?”

     “Why the hell would I know her?” Cait asked, “I’m not exactly the social butterfly of the Commonwealth.”

     “Right,” Sturges conceded, “I’ll see if I can get anything from her.”

     Cait shrugged and disappeared into the garage as Sturges approached the two cautiously.  The woman looked up at him warily, her features creased with exhaustion.

     “Heard you were looking for the General.”

     “Uh, yes,” the woman said, straightening a bit. “Nora Wilson.  Are you an associate?”

     “I’m her mechanic,” Sturges replied with a slight grin, “She’s actually out running errands.  Anything I can help with?”

     “Her mechanic?”

     “Yep, name’s Sturges.”

     He held out a hand.  She glanced down at it and then shook cautiously.

     “Sturges,” she repeated, then her eyes widened in surprise. “Oh!  You’re the one who built the teleporter!”

     As soon as the words were out, she shrank back as if she’d let slip a big secret.  Sturges cocked an eyebrow and nodded slowly.

     “That was me,” he replied, “Mostly.  Am I famous and didn’t realize?”

     “Uh, she – she mentioned you a few times,” the woman said, “I remembered the name because I was impressed.”

     “Oh, thank you,” Sturges said, “Any chance you’ll return the favor and give me your name?”

     The woman pursed her lips, her grip on her boy tightening a bit.  He leaned into her, eyes glassy and nose running a bit, coughing hard into his blanket.

     “She said if we ever needed help on the surface, to go to Sanctuary Hills.”

     “Sanctuary’s had a problem with raiders lately, so they’re not letting visitors in, but whatever help you need, we can get you right here.”

     The woman took a deep breath and nodded. “My name is Allie Filmore.  This is my son, Quentin.  We need a doctor.”

 

     George glanced over at James out of the corner of his eye and then turned quickly back to his work.  They’d been sitting in silence for fifteen minutes, rigging the smoke bombs from scavenged plastic and a box of Abraxo.

     “Is this the same strategy she used to clear out Evergreen Mills?”

     James looked up from plastic bottle he was cutting into and shrugged. “Basically,” he said, “Sounds similar, from what she and Charon told us.  Not like I was actually there.”

     George winced but didn’t respond immediately. “I made a mistake.”

     “A mistake?” James asked, looking up with his brow furrowed in confusion. “Oh, you mean when you attacked Megaton, took me hostage, and strung me up like a piñata?  Yeah, that was a mistake.”

     “What a mouth,” Renee muttered to him, “No wonder he and Nora get along so well.”

     “When you live for two hundred years and see the things I have, you can come back and lecture me, kid.”

     “I try to make a point of not engaging sanctimonious assholes,” James replied conversationally, “This makes fifteen and we’re out of Abraxo.”

     He dropped the smoke bomb onto the pile and looked at George expectantly.  George bit the inside of his lip and tried to remember what his granddaughter had said about keeping opinions under wraps.

     “That’ll have to be enough, then.”

     “Well, if we’re lucky, this will herd them out and onto the land mines,” James said, “If not, it’ll give them all lung cancer and they’ll die eventually anyway.  You got the lighters?”

     “You’re going to light them all individually?”

     “Until the radiation allows me to grow some extra arms, yes.”

     “Alright, put your attitude aside for a second,” George replied with an eye roll, “Here, line them up, about four or five at a time.”

     James scowled but did as he was told, rearranging the bombs into small groups.  George began tying them together in strings, knotting old yarn around the spout of each bomb like a small fuse.

     “These are soaked in gas, so they’ll burn quick,” he explained, nodding to the gas canister nearby. “One spark and you light a bunch at a time.  Just don’t burn yourself.”

     “A multilevel fuse,” James said, “Ingenuitive.  When did you learn to make smoke bombs?”

     “High school,” George replied, “I never liked class assemblies.”

 

     “Looks like a good spot up here,” Nora said, peeking over the ledge of rock.  She slung her rifle over it and hauled herself up, accidentally kicking down rocks as she went.  She heard Haylen slip and swear behind her.

     “You alright?’

     “Yeah,” Haylen’s strained voice answered as she struggled to follow up the rugged little outcrop.  Nora leaned back over the edge and saw her pause, breathing hard with a hand over her stomach.  She frowned to herself.

     “Here,” she said, holding out a hand.  Haylen grabbed it gratefully and Nora pulled her up, muscles straining, and the two settled back on the rock for a moment of rest.

     “Sorry,” Haylen muttered after a moment, “I guess sitting around the settlement has made me a little soft.”

     Nora waved it off. “As long as you can still shoot, I’m not terribly worried about your rock-climbing skills.”

     Haylen nodded, a hand still over her stomach.  Nora grabbed her rifle and shifted to face the Fort, stealing glances at her partner as she did so.  She wasn’t wearing a gun belt like she usually did, her pistol clipped to the waistband of her jeans, her shirt hanging loose and untucked.

     Nora felt a strange twinge in her chest as she adjusted her scope and idly wondered when Curie would return to Sanctuary.  Shaking her head, she glanced through the glass and scanned the rooftops.  Three raiders milled aimlessly around on the roof of the fort, all armed with laser pistols that looked like they’d been taken off the first and second-generation synths inside the fort.  It had started to rain again, a slow drizzle she could feel soaking through the back of her shirt.

     “No wind,” Haylen said, shifting into a crouch. “How many do you think you can take?”

     “Depends on how they react to the first shot,” Nora replied, squinting through the scopes again. “It still takes me a few seconds to steady for a second shot.”

     Haylen nodded and glanced at her watch. “It’s 5:13.  We should see the signal any minute now.”

     Nora took a deep breath and settled into position behind her rifle.  One of the raiders was sitting on the edge of the roof, feet dangling.  She placed his head in her crosshairs and waited.

     “There’s the signal,” Haylen said as Nora saw the smoke bloom in the corner of her scope.  She took another deep breath and squeezed the trigger.

 

     Clayton could see almost everything that happened outside the fort, secure in his chair on the lowest level of the fort.  The old security system had been mostly destroyed, but, using the scraps and the left-behind Institute supplies, he’d managed to rig up a few cameras and a working intercom.  On grainy black and white screens, he saw the smoke pouring from the garage as the raiders rushed out, two going down quick in splatters of blood.  He saw the little group come in through the door a few minutes later, quick and efficient. 

     He watched, jittering in anticipation, as a rooftop guard fell, a sniper shot tearing half of his head off.  Before long, two women appeared and took down the last two guards without much trouble.  He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw her on the camera, face clearly visible under that stupid hat she always wore.

     “She brought reinforcements,” Jade noted from behind him.  He shrugged and sat back, eyes flicking across the screens.

     “They won’t be a problem.”

     “You’re sure about that?”

     “Of course I’m sure,” Clayton replied, irritated at her constant badgering. “Unless you rigged the cages wrong, it’s all going to go how I want it to go.”

     “All this for one woman?”

     “And the kid,” he said, “They’ve ruined a lot of lives.”

     Jade shrugged. “Whatever.”

     Clayton ignored her and scooted back towards the desk with all of his monitoring equipment.  She was approaching the stairwell where the majority of her group was.  He flipped on the intercom and pressed the little button.

     “Hello, Mrs. Wilson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was very weird to realize that, given the Fallout timeline, George would currently be in school setting off smoke bombs. o.O


	43. Traps Along The Way

     Nora froze, stopping so suddenly that Haylen walked right into her.  She looked up and around, searching for the source of the voice.  She heard a mechanical whir and saw a security camera in the corner turn and focus on her.

     “Took you longer to get here than I expected.”

     Nora’s chest tightened as if someone had looped a belt around her sternum.  Her grip on her rifle loosened and the gun dipped as she shook her head and tried to breathe in.  Kellogg was _dead_ , she’d made sure of that, had looked straight at his bullet-ridden corpse and broken, torn skull.  She’d emptied her gun into his body and let it lie there for hours –

     “Nora!”

     She felt Haylen grab her as her knees failed for a moment and she stumbled.  She grabbed for the wall and leaned heavily against it, beads of cold sweat dripping down her back. 

     _Never expected you to come knocking on my door.  Gave you 50/50 odds of making it to Diamond City…_

     She swallowed and struggled in a deep, slow breath.  Her heart was racing and her hands shook so hard she could barely hold on to her gun.

     “I’ve got _two_ of your friends down here with me,” the voice on the intercom continued, “Think you can make it down here before it’s too late?”

     Her chest hitched and she dropped her gun.  Deacon and MacCready needed her, but she felt frozen in place, unable to move as her worst nightmares replayed themselves in her head.

     “Nora!”

     She slid down the wall into a sitting position, trembling all over as she buried her face in her hands.  Haylen shook her and then yelled something.  Her breath was coming in short gasps, lungs struggling and skin damp with cold sweat.  She heard the shuffle of feet far away, like an undercurrent to Kellogg laughing in her head over and over.

     “Nora, look at me,” a male voice said.  A cold bit of metal wrapped around her bicep and squeezed.

     “Nora!” The metal squeezed hard and bit into her skin.  She flinched and gasped and looked up, straight into the gleaming yellow eyes of Nick Valentine.

     “He’s not here, kiddo,” he said, soft and firm. “We need to get moving.”

     “I can’t,” Nora whispered, her voice scraping against her sore throat. “I can’t, Nick.”

     “Yes, you can,” Nick replied, “Nora Wilson doesn’t say ‘I can’t’.”

     He pulled her to her feet and thrust her gun back at her. “You’ve got two friends down there that need your help.  You aren’t going to let them down, are you?”

     Nora gulped and shook her head.  Nick smiled grimly at her. “I didn’t think so,” he said, “Whoever this jackass is, we’re going take care of him.”

     Nora tightened her grip on her rifle and nodded.  She didn’t trust herself to speak.

     “Time’s a-wastin’,” the voice on the intercom chanted.  Nora gritted her teeth and lifted her rifle to her shoulder, taking aim and putting a bullet straight through the speakers attached to the camera overhead.  The noise shot through her skull like a thunderbolt and she felt both ears pop.  Her five companions all clapped their hands over their ears and looked at her as if she were crazy.

     “Let’s move,” she said, her own voice far away and tinny.  She lead the way through the dim hallways, finger on the trigger as she went.

 

     Clayton smiled and sat back in his chair.  He hadn’t expected such a visceral reaction, but whatever worked.  He needed her on edge, off-balance.  He _wanted_ her there. 

     He glanced over at Barnes and wrinkled his nose.  The coppery smell of blood clung to his nostrils as Barnes wiped his knife and tossed the dirty rag into a bucket nearby.  He was smiling to himself, inspecting the blade, sitting calm and relaxed.  His former associate was still hanging in the cell, head lolling on his shoulders as blood trickled down over his bare arms and chest.

     “That’s disgusting,” Jade complained, shoving the bucket of bloody rags over with the toe of her boot. “Can’t you take that shit outside?”

     “What’s the matter, sweets, afraid of a little blood?”

     Jade curled her lip at him. “No, I just don’t care for the stench,” she replied acidly, “I’m not an animal; I don’t like hanging out around the garbage.”

     “You’re welcome to leave anytime, sweets.”

     “I’m not leaving until you dipsticks pay me,” Jade snapped, throwing herself into a chair. “Call me sweets again, and I’ll take just take the payment out of your hide.”

     Barnes chuckled and started to say something, but he was interrupted by a laugh from the holding cell.  The other prisoner, the one who had been following him, seemed to think the exchange was funny.

     “You idiots are like a bunch of children,” he said, voice hoarse. “Seriously.  That’s why she always manages to take you out.  Fighting over caps and…”

     He giggled again as Barnes scowled at him.

     “Shut up,” the former Gunner growled, sheathing his knife and standing.  He grabbed his rag bucket and made for the back door, ignoring Jade’s smirk as he went.

     Clayton turned back to his security monitor in silent agreement.  If he was lucky, she’d take care of Jade and Barnes for him, though it didn’t really matter in the end.  Let them have their caps and their torture sessions; he just wanted her.

 

     Nora’s ears rang as she moved through the fort, down dark corridors littered with rusty synth bodies and other garbage, around cobwebbed corners, and finally to the bottom level.  She paused at a security door, staring at the handle, hearing the way Dogmeat had paced as clearly as if he were there.

     _Alright.  My synths are standing down.  Let’s talk._

     He’d known.  He’d tried to warn her, tried to tell her that looking for her son was fruitless.

     She wondered momentarily if he knew that her son had sent him into the Commonwealth to be hunted, had set up the whole elaborate scheme so she could be lead to where he wanted her.  It was just so _stupid_.  Almost a year of chasing shadows across the wasteland, all for a heartbreaking ending.

     “Nora?”

     She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, gripping the door handle. “I just need a moment – to – a moment to think,” she said, stumbling over her words and cursing herself for it.  Way to look calm, in control, like someone who knew what the hell she was doing.  She wanted Hancock there with her, but his shattered shoulder blade needed longer to heal than she could wait.

     “Let’s go.”

     She pushed the door open, rifle held in front of her, and scanned the darkened hallway ahead.  It was a few steps to the little stairwell and into the old data room, the one where Kellogg had been hiding.  It was the only one not blocked off and big enough to hold two captives and the asshole taunting her on the intercom.

     Nora took another steadying breath and steeled herself.  The faster she got in and took care of the asshole, the faster she could go home to her family and forget this place even existed.

     She strode down the hallway, her footsteps and those of her companions muffled in the dirt and grime.  She reached for the door handle but it swung open before she did, accompanied by an electronic buzz.  Lights flipped on, illuminating the open room in front of her.  The band around her chest tightened again as she squinted and took in the room.

     Most of the computers and prewar filing cabinets had been removed, replaced by tables covered in potted plants and grow lights.  A pair of beds were shoved against the back wall, shelves stacked haphazardly with packaged food and various supplies.  To her right, built against the wall, was a large cage, not unlike the prewar jail cells she was so familiar with.  Inside the cage were her two friends, Deacon propped against the wall like a giant ragdoll, MacCready hanging by his wrists from a rope noose.

     Nora took an instinctive step towards them, her heart pounding.

     “Don’t try it,” a voice replied.  Nora stopped, whirling towards the voice.  It was the man on the intercom, but without the electronic interference, he sounded terribly familiar.

     “What, did you think I was just going to let you walk in and take them back?”

     The owner of the voice walked leisurely towards her, hands stuffed in his pockets. “The lock is rigged and my friend Jade here has the trigger,” he said, “Won’t be quite as big as a nuclear reactor exploding, but enough to make sure they don’t ever see the light of day again.”

     Nora stared.  A nuclear reactor…

     “Dr. Holdren?”

     He smiled darkly. “I wondered if you’d remember me,” he said, “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

     Nora knew exactly how long it had been, down to the hour, but she didn’t respond.  She looked over at the cage and noticed the little black box wired onto the lock, an explosive charge about as big as a pack of playing cards.  Behind Clayton were two others, a rough-looking mercenary with an eye patch and a blue-haired raider.  The raider smiled and flashed a little remote at her, a detonator not unlike the one she had used to destroy the Institute.

     “I think you’ve met my friend, Barnes,” Clayton said, gesturing behind him to the mercenary.  Nora took a step back, barely able to keep her jaw from dropping.

     “The Gunner,” she said, and the man gave her an acidic leer. “You guys…you planned all this?”

     “A chance meeting a few months ago,” Clayton said, “Two people with an incredible connection – both of our lives were ruined by the same woman.  The same Nora Wilson and her band of self-righteous thugs.”

     Nora swallowed hard and looked down, unable to face Clayton Holdren.  Seven months and not a word of any human survivors from the Institute, and now she had walked right into a revenge trap.

     A trap she had known would end up in her path someday.

     “Dr. Holdren, please let my friends go,” she said, looking back up at him. “I made the decision on my own to…”

     The words caught in her throat and Clayton scowled at her.

     “You _destroyed_ the Institute,” he finished for her, “You killed your son.  You destroyed the best hope for humanity.  My _life_ , my _work_ , my _family_ …gone.  And for what?”

     Nora didn’t say anything.  She’d given her son her reasons, but in the end they had never seemed like enough.  She sighed and let her rifle drop to the floor, metal clattering on concrete.  She unhooked her pistol and dropped it, too, and the knife she kept in her boot.

     “Do what you want to me.”

 

     Charon sized up the situation as quickly as he could, eyes darting around the room.  They outnumbered the kidnappers two to one, but they had leverage.  And Nora was giving up.

     He didn’t really know why.  He knew she had a history with the Institute, knew that the Minutemen had been the ones to take them down.  He could surmise there was a personal element to it.  He didn’t really care, to be honest.

     Nora Wilson was his employer and he was bound to protect her, life or death.

     With stealth honed over two and a half centuries, he took a step back and lowered his left hand so that he could touch James’s.  The kid flinched but didn’t move otherwise.  Hoping he could sense the message because he damn sure didn’t understand morse code, he traced two words onto the back of James’s hand.

     _defuse bomb_

     He waited and held his rifle steady in one hand.  The kidnappers’ attention seemed to be solely focused on Nora.

     He glanced at James without turning his head and saw the kid nod almost imperceptibly.  He nodded back and aimed his rifle.

     The bullet left the barrel with an ear-shattering crack and the blue-haired raider’s head snapped back as blood sprayed the wall behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I confess!
> 
> The Cliffhangers Muse and I are...
> 
> We're lovers.
> 
> We've been having a dirty, dirty affair for many years and it has destroyed my relationships with many readers. But I can't stop.
> 
> I'm also aware that I'm not really all that funny.


	44. Refuge

     James sprinted to the cage, practically sliding into place on his knees as he knelt in front of the bomb.  Gunshots rang out and he heard panicked yelling, but he ducked his head and peered at the device, gripping the bars it was wired to so they wouldn’t shake so badly.  It wasn’t a 15-kiloton nuclear warhead, but if it went off at the wrong time, he wasn’t walking out of the fort.

     “Stop it!” he heard Nora scream in between gunshots.

     He twisted his neck, trying to look at the back of the little device, and caught a glimpse of a pair of metallic cathodes.  An electronic bomb.

     The gunshots ceased as he unclipped his Pip-Boy and threw it behind him, then fished in his pockets for a small black device similar to the bomb.  One of the few tools he always remembered to pack when he went on the road, it had been rebuilt three or four times since the vault.

     He took a deep breath and flipped the little switch from OFF to ON.

     He closed his eyes and counted to thirty as the gunshots ceased suddenly.  At thirty, he grabbed the device and pulled it off the cage, wires snapping, and fell back onto his ass, both devices cradled in his lap.  He turned the bomb over gingerly and slipped a nail under the back panel, prying it off.  Nestled inside, attached to the outside cathodes by more wiring, was a pair of tiny glass tubes, both filled with white-gray powder.

     “What are you doing?”

     He looked up and exhaled heavily, realizing he’d been holding his breath. “It’s safe now,” he said, “I killed the charge.”

     Haylen stared suspiciously for a second. “You’re sure?”

     James took another deep breath and nodded.  He was sweating, his pulse racing as he pulled out the two tubes and set them down on either side of him.

     “Two reactive substances triggered by an electrical charge,” he explained, “I fried the processor so the substances have nothing to react to.  As is, they’re basically inert --”

     “That’s nice,” Haylen interrupted, “Move and help me here.”

     James jumped up, kicking the little vials away, and threw the cell door open.  He’d been so focused on thanking his lucky stars he hadn’t blow them all up that he’d forgotten about the two guys in the cell.  Haylen dropped her gun and flipped a knife out of her hip bag, cutting the young man down as James helped lower him to the floor.

     “Nora, he tried to kill all of us!”

     “I know what he did!” he heard Nora yell back, “Charon, don’t let them touch him.”

     James glanced up just as Nora rushed over, still unarmed.  He couldn’t see the kidnapper she’d been talking to, just Charon standing stock still, arms folded over his chest, facing Nick and George with that expression that managed to be both blank and menacing.

     “RJ, you still with me?” Haylen asked, cradling the man’s head as she pulled a Stimpak out of her pocket. “Come on, show me those lovely eyes.”

     She stabbed the Stimpak into his shoulder and then tossed a second one to Nora, who was knelt by the other man in the corner.

     “Deke, what were you thinking?” she scolded, “You don’t go on ops alone anymore.”

     “My partner was out of town,” the man mumbled back, “I got bored.”

     “I’m going to kill Dez for letting you run around by yourself,” Nora replied, “She waited two weeks before she bothered to send anyone after you, and then it was just the new kid.”

     “I feel like I should take that as an insult,” James muttered.  Nora sighed but didn’t answer him.

     “Can you walk, Deke?”

     “I can hop.”

     “Alright,” she said, “James, can you take him back to the surface?”

     “Yep.”

     As she helped him lift Deacon up, he took another glance over at Charon.

     “Are we, uh, in the clear?”

     Nora looked away from him. “I won’t kill him,” she said, “Go on.  I called for the vertibird.  That elevator goes all the way to the roof.  We’ll be right behind you.”

     James hesitated a moment and then nodded.  He looped Deacon’s arm over his shoulders and directed him towards the elevator.  Nora gave him a grateful smile as she went back to helping Haylen.

     She leaned back on her heels next to him, her gut tightening as she took in the damage to his torso.  Someone – Barnes, she guessed – had taken a sharp knife to him, leaving behind a minefield of short, deep cuts across his chest and stomach, cuts crusted with half-dried blood.  She placed a hand on his side and felt him flinch.

     “Sarah?”

     Nora heard Haylen sigh gratefully as she looked down at him, smiling. “I’m here, RJ.”

     He dragged his eyes open and squinted at her. “You’re on light duty,” he mumbled, voice scratchy. “Rescue missions don’t count as light duty.”

     Haylen’s cheeks colored and Nora smiled as she caught her eye. “I was starting to suspect,” she said, “Come on, let’s get you guys home.”

     She helped MacCready stand, feeling him pulling away from her a bit as she looped an arm around his waist.  He had always been weirdly modest with her, but she could tell there were some invisible injuries, too.  She directed them toward the elevator James and Deacon had used, punched the button, and looked back towards Charon.

     “I’ll follow you guys up in a moment,” she said.  Haylen nodded and MacCready mumbled unintelligibly.  She steeled herself and strode back to the rest of the group, stepping over Barnes’s cooling body as she went.

     Clayton was seated in one of the old office chairs, hunched in on himself, clutching his bloody shoulder.  He refused to look at her as she dug another Stimpak out of her bag and poked it into the wound.

     “I didn’t ask any of you to interfere,” she said after a moment of tense silence, “I had it handled.”

     “I apologize, ma’am,” Charon replied stiffly, a sudden formality to his voice that made her chest tighten with guilt. “I was not aware you wanted me to stand down.”

     She shook her head as a million different thoughts start to run through her head.  She could feel Nick and her grandfather looking at her, waiting for her to say something else.

     “Is that your only injury?” she asked Clayton.  He spared her a cursory glance filled with a hatred she could see and feel as if it were an entity.

     “Don’t touch me.”

     The words cut through her, ice-cold and hard.  She thought briefly of her son pulling his hand away when she touched it and suddenly, the room was too small, too hot.  She sucked in a deep breath.

     “Charon, please take Dr. Holdren back to Sanctuary with the others on the vertibird,” she said, trying desperately to keep her voice from shaking. “Make sure he gets any medical care he needs.  Tell Preston or Ronnie what happened.  They can give you other instructions until I get there.”

     “Yes, ma’am,” Charon replied, “Should I have the vertibird come back for you?”

     “Yes.”

     He placed a firm hand on Clayton’s uninjured shoulder and steered him to the elevator.  He dwarfed the scientist in a way that would have been comical if Nora hadn’t been holding the tidal wave back by sheer force of will.

     When they were gone, she pushed past Nick and her grandfather to where she had dropped her weapons, bending to gather them up.

     “Nora,” Nick said cautiously, “What are you doing?”

     “He’s an Institute refugee,” she replied tonelessly, “I’m giving him quarter like we decided to last year.”

     “He had your friends kidnapped and tortured to get to you,” George answered, half angry, half incredulous. “He’s not a refugee by any --”

     “I destroyed his home,” she said, “I’m guilty of every accusation he made.  I won’t sentence him to death for that.”

     She could hear Kellogg in her head again. _You’re pissed, I get it._

     “You’re not going to let him wander Sanctuary, I hope,” Nick said, fixing her with that unblinking stare.

     She shook her head. “I’ll decide when I can talk to Preston and Ronnie.  Right now, I just want to go home.”

 

     The three stood waiting on the roof of Fort Hagen, silent as insects chirped around them.  Weak starlight shone down on them, half-hidden behind the storm clouds that were still rolling lazily west.  Nora rolled the ring Hancock had given her around her finger, comforted by its familiar smoothness and weight.  Her grandfather stood beside her, his arm over her shoulders.

     “Nick,” she said, “Can you do something for me?”

     “Anything for you, kiddo.  What d’you need?”

     “Is Mrs. McDonough still in Diamond City?”

     “Yep.  I see her everyday, almost.”

     Nora nodded in the dark.  This could blow up in her face, but she was willing to try it.

     “Can you tell her John is ready to talk?”

     There was a beat of silence.  She could see Nick’s luminous eyes focus on her in the darkness.

     “Is he?”

     “Probably not, but…”

     She tried to give words to what she meant but came up empty.  Nick nodded slowly.

     “Alright, kiddo.”

 

     Hancock stretched out along the couch, shifting to find a position that didn’t make his shoulder ache and feeling much older than he was.  Just as he sighed and closed his eyes, Codsworth floated past with a bottle of some foul-smelling chemical.

     “Codsworth, I’ll just paint over it,” he said as the robot doused the wall and floor and began to scrub anxiously. “Trust me, that shit ain’t comin’ out.”

     “It looks _terrible!_ ” Codsworth fussed, mechanical arms whirring as he scrubbed at the dark bloodstains. “This is a disaster.  My job is to keep the home clean and presentable…”

     “I don’t think Nora’s going to blame you for this one.”

     “She’s such a dear woman,” Codsworth replied, still scrubbing.  Hancock rolled his eyes but didn’t reply, knowing the Mr. Handy wouldn’t be satisfied until the stains were gone or covered.  He let himself sink into the ancient cushions, trying to will sleep to overtake him instead of continuing to count the minutes until Nora walked back through the door.  Shaun and Anne had both been uptight without her around; he’d awkwardly tried to comfort them through it but only succeeded in reminding himself that he sucked at parenting.  They had fallen asleep together in their bed, Shaun with his face half-hidden like his mother and Anne curled into his side, leaving him to try to settle alone on the couch, Jet swimming in his veins and muscles jittering with anxiety.

     Damn that woman; without her he was fucking _useless_.

     “Hancock?”

     He looked over and saw Preston standing in the doorway.  He looked odd without his duster and musket, though the gas burns on his face had already begun to heal decently.

     “Something wrong?”

     “Courier from Diamond City dropped this off a few minutes ago,” he said, holding out a folded note. “I think it’s from Curie.”

     Hancock sat up and took the note. “Thanks.”

     The Minuteman nodded and wandered off, still withdrawn and looking guilty despite many reassurances that he hadn’t taken the bullet to his shoulder personally.

     Hancock unfolded the note and scanned the contents.  He blinked and rubbed his eyes, then read it again as his stomach flopped strangely.

 

_Nora,_

_Completed the tests for you – Sarah will be able to give you the treatment necessary until I return –_

_Giardia – positive (remember, only purified water!)_

_Radiation – normal_

_Pregnancy – negative_

_Curie_


	45. Tidal Wave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: addiction, grief, suicide

     Sanctuary was as busy as ever when Nora and her grandfather plodded back from the Red Rocket, despite the late hour.  The rain had tapered off, leaving everything drenched and dripping, the humid night air weighing on them like a damp blanket.  Most of the settlement seemed to be gathered at the tables and benches outside the common house, enjoying a communal dinner.  The smell of roasted vegetables and radstag would normally have been enticing, but tonight it made Nora’s stomach turn.

     “Mom!”

     Shaun detached himself from the group and came running over, throwing his arms around her.  She hugged him back, holding him for a moment longer than usual, reminding herself of how much she loved coming home.

     “You want something to eat?” Shaun asked, pulling back from her. “There’s still plenty left.  I helped Mama Murphy chop the carrots and I didn’t cut myself this time.”

     “That’s great, sweetheart,” Nora replied, trying to smile. “I’m exhausted, though; I think I’ll just head inside and relax.”

     His face fell and George interjected quickly. “I’m starved, kiddo,” he said, “Show me where everything is.”

      Shaun brightened and took off towards the group again.  George squeezed Nora’s shoulder reassuringly before following and she slipped away towards the house.  Codsworth was inside, straightening bottles of water on the kitchen shelves and picking nervously at things the way he did when he didn’t have anything else to do.

     “Ah, Miss Nora!” he exclaimed when she closed the door, “So good to see you back in one piece.  Is there anything I can get you?”

     “Where’s Anne and Hancock?”

     “Your other half just put her to bed,” Codsworth replied, “I think he went out to the guard tower for a bit of fresh air.”

     Nora nodded. “Charon’s in the Vault with the man we brought back from Fort Hagen,” she said, “Can you head over there and see if they need anything?”

     “Of course, ma’am.”

     “Thank you, Codsworth.”

     He whirled out the front door and Nora breathed a sigh of relief, tiptoeing down the hall to see Anne.  She slept in the room that had once been the bathroom, everything stripped out and replaced with what passed as a nursery in the Wasteland.  Nora leaned over the edge of the crib, brushing a hand over the sleeping girl’s head before blowing her a kiss and slipping out.

     As Codsworth had said, Hancock was outside, behind the house.  Although Shaun had called it the guard tower and the name stuck, it was more of an elevated deck overlooking the gulch, giving them a view of the woods and little else.  The most they guarded Sanctuary from on that tower was the occasional bloatfly drifting past.

     Nora climbed the short steps up, leaning her rifle against the railing at the top.  Hancock was seated in one of the two old chairs on the opposite end, his arm dangling over the edge, a lit cigarette held loosely between his first two fingers.  The ashtray on the floor next to his boot was overflowing, though Nora was certain she’d emptied it right before leaving for Fort Hagen.

     “Hey.”

     She sat next to him, sliding down in the old chair gratefully.

     “Hey.”

     Nora frowned.  His tone was flat, almost disinterested, but she heard the undercut of tension.

     “Are you alright?”

     “Doin’ fine.”

     “You’re a shitty liar, John.”

     He took a drag on his cigarette and shifted position, sitting up straighter.  The line of his back was tense, wired, like he was waiting for a fight.  Nora frowned deeper and waited as he pulled something out of his coat pocket and handed it to her.

     A handwritten note, folded in half but wrinkled and soft like it had been handled a lot.  Nora took it and read, feeling her stomach drop.

     She wasn’t pregnant.

     “Why didn’t you tell me?”

     Nora looked over and felt herself deflate. “I wasn’t trying to hide anything.”

     “Then why not tell me?” he asked, meeting her eyes for a minute. “Were you going to tell me at all?”

     “Something like that would be kind of hard to conceal, don’t you think?”

     “Well, not like there’s anything to conceal, anyway.”

     Nora sighed. “John, why are you upset with me over this?” she asked, “It was just a stupid conclusion I jumped to when I was sick and exhausted.”

     “Why would you jump to _that_ conclusion?”

     “Because I’m a woman and when my body acts up in certain ways, it’s what I think,” Nora snapped in frustration, rubbing her forehead as a headache bloomed behind it. “I have not stepped out on you, if that’s what you’re upset about.”

     “I didn’t think that.”

     “Then what is the problem, John?” Nora half-yelled, her frustration and bewilderment rising to a peak. “Why are you taking this like a personal slap in the face?”

     He didn’t answer, fishing in his pockets for another cigarette.  Nora waited, fists balled against her thighs, wishing desperately she could shake an answer out of him.

     “You let Curie shove me out of the room,” he said at last, his voice low and rough. “You didn’t tell me you thought you might be pregnant, and I feel like I intercepted this note by accident.”

     “I would have told you about the results either way.”

     “Would you?”

     “Yes!” Nora replied, glaring at him. “You know me, John.”

     “I know what I am,” he answered, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, cigarette burning down. “I wouldn’t want to have a kid with me.”

     Nora shook her head and stood. “You’re a fucking idiot is what you are, John Hancock.”

     She balled up the note and tossed it into the overflowing ashtray. “Come find me when you get your head out of your ass.”

 

     James yawned, his eyes watering as he shuffled along the dimly-lit sidewalk towards the common house.  Most of the settlement had turned in as midnight approached, but despite his overwhelming exhaustion, he hadn’t been able to fall asleep.  He knew it most certainly wasn’t recommended, but he needed something to shut his brain up for a few hours and he knew what would do the trick.

     He pushed open the door and glanced inside the darkened interior.

     “Looking for something?”

     He jumped, heart leaping into his throat, as he noticed someone sitting on the far end of the room.  Nora, sprawled over one end of the couch, face cast in harsh shadows thrown by the oil lantern on the side table.  She had her feet propped up on a crate and a dark bottle in her hand.

     “Are you alright?”

     “Me?” she asked, taking a sip from her bottle. “Just peachy.”

     James flopped onto the couch next to her. “Didn’t take you for the drinking alone in the dark type.”

     “Better than the alternative,” Nora replied with a loose shrug.

     “What’s the alternative?”

     She didn’t answer, taking another pull off the bottle.  She grimaced and offered it to him.

     “I don’t have cooties.”

     James took it and downed a mouthful of warm whiskey.  It burned pleasantly as it went down.

     “What brings you around these parts?” Nora asked, sliding further down the couch.

     “Well, I am the drinking alone in the dark type.”

     Nora gave a mirthless laugh. “Something about us Vaulties, right?”

     “Nah, I’m just a drunk,” James replied, “You’re not, though.  Institute on your mind?”

     Nora sighed heavily and took the bottle back for a quick shot. “Fucking Institute is always on my mind.”

     “Kidnapper was from the Institute, wasn’t he?”

     “Yeah.  Dr. Clayton Holdren, Head of Bioscience.”

     “You knew him?”

     “I knew him,” Nora answered, “Bioscience was mostly tasked with food supply, but he had this pet project where he was creating synthetic gorillas.”

     “Synthetic whats?”

     “Gorillas,” Nora repeated, “Big monkey things.  He used synth technology to make a primate.”

     “Why?”

     Nora shrugged. “Beats me.  It was just something he did for the hell of it, I guess.”

     “And he hates you for what you did to the Institute.”

     “Yep,” Nora agreed, and took another pull off her bottle. “Don’t blame him, really.”

     “Because of your son.”

     “You don’t miss a fucking thing, do you?”

     James smiled and took the bottle back from her, sliding it into the space between his leg and the arm of the couch, out of her reach. 

     “I think I’ve got the pieces of the puzzle,” he said, “Help me put them together.”

     “And _why_ should I do that?”

     James shrugged. “I’m not going to beat it out of you, but I feel like you need to tell someone.”

     “What I need is to forget about the whole damned thing,” Nora replied sharply, leaning over him and plucking the bottle out of his hiding space. “You know how often I wish some raider or Super Mutant would come along and clock me on the head, give me a nice, convenient case of amnesia?”

     She drank from the bottle, long enough that James grabbed it back roughly.  She coughed and scowled at him, holding the back of her hand to her mouth.

     “I’ve played this game before,” she said, her voice wheezy with alcohol burn. “Truth or shot or some such bullshit.  If you want me to spill, you go first.”

     James took a shot of whiskey and then set the almost-empty bottle on the ground, farther away from Nora.  She looked at him expectantly.

     “What do you want to know?”

     “Tell me about Sarah Lyons.”

     James sighed. “Right for the bullseye, huh?”

     “You’re not the only one with good intuition,” Nora answered, “And Hancock told me how you were saying her name when you were out of it.”

     “She meant a lot to me.”

     “She was your…” Nora trailed off and waved her hand vaguely around her head. “The word left me.”

     “We had a thing, yeah,” James said, “Kept it kind of between us for the most part, though.  She was technically my superior officer.”

     “Serious?”

     “Four years.  Never talked about anything long term, but I didn’t want anything more than what we had.  Guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”

     Nora was silent for a moment and pulled her legs up onto the couch, curling in on herself.  James looked over at her in the dark and felt a sadness pull at him, a sadness she exuded.

     “Your son was a part of the Institute?”

     She nodded. “When I was in the Vault, I woke up for a minute or two in the cryopod,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “There were people there.  They opened my husband’s pod long enough to shoot him in the head and grab our baby boy.”

     James winced. “That’s…awful.”

     “When I woke up again, I went looking for him,” Nora continued, “Tracked the mercenary that shot my husband to Fort Hagen.  Tried to get information out of him and ended up just emptying my gun into his miserable gut.”

     “How’d you eventually find your boy?”

     “A long, convoluted series of clues and misdirection left behind on purpose so I could find him but not without risking my life on many occasions.”

     “Fuck, that sounds familiar,” James replied, rubbing his face as the alcohol began to work its way into his brain. “My dad…bastard had me traipsing across the wastes after him for close to a year.  Damn near lost my mind in some stupid Vault simulator.  All for a fucking purifier.”

     “More noble than synthetic human slaves.”

     “I guess.  Didn’t feel all that noble to teenage me, waking up one morning safe and snug in the Vault to find out Dad’s gone and the Overseer wants to kill me.”

     “He died, too, didn’t he?”

     “Killed himself so the Enclave couldn’t get a hold of the purifier.”

     Nora sighed and leaned her cheek on her knees, staring at him in the dark. “My son was the Director of the Institute.”

     James blew out a heavy breath and shook his head. “So they kept you in the cryopod after they took him?”

     “Sixty years.”

     “Shit.”

     “Yeah.”

     They sat in silence, the lantern flickering down.  James picked up the bottle and took a long swallow, allowing the alcohol to burn away the cold grief in his chest.  He didn’t need to keep asking to guess what had happened between Nora and her son, didn’t need the details.  He could guess and he knew why he’d found her here, chasing the same elusive fix he’d been after.

     “I never thought I’d miss them as much as I do,” James said finally, “It’s been years and it still hurts.”

     “Just what I need to hear,” Nora replied, grabbing the bottle from him.  She finished it off in one quick gulp and grimaced.  James looked over at her and slid down into the couch as his eyelids drooped.

     “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t come by to just make it worse.”

     “I know,” Nora slurred, giving him a watery smile. “Doesn’t matter.  Truth is, I’m always this on the inside.”

     “Yeah?”

     “Yeah,” Nora replied, “There’s this…this tidal wave of everything coming at me most of the time.  Few times a month, I get sloshed or high or both, then sleep it off and feel normal in the morning.”

     “Yeah,” James agreed, “If I let myself feel it when I’m under the influence, I know eventually I’ll pass out or something.  It’ll stop.”

     Nora leaned over against him, scooting down so they were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch, staring off into the darkness.  Insects buzzed outside the window behind them and the oil lamp flickered out.  A cloud shifted and moonlight spilled into the room in a bright silver stream.  After several long minutes, James closed his eyes and let the whiskey lure him into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit where credit is due -- Nora's tidal wave analogy is partly inspired by Blue October's song "Into the Ocean". Been on my playlist for ages and I've also had these scenes with Nora and Hancock/James hanging around since I started writing.
> 
> I like the live version here if you're interested (SFW): https://youtu.be/uCilX_5xiGs?list=PLOW_KJhzc9jURaaXSOe9Bwjy-5Wb9VHkT


	46. The Fate of the Institute

     “Loving the look, Boss.”

     Nora fell into a chair with a groan.  He couldn’t see her expression clearly past the sunglasses, but Deacon was certain she was glaring at him.

     “I would literally kill for some aspirin,” she muttered, rubbing her forehead. “How are you doing?”

     “Better than you, looks like.”

     Nora ignored him and turned to look at his wounded leg.  The Stimpak had kept him from bleeding out, but done nothing for the shrapnel or infection.  Haylen had spent most of the previous night fixing him and MacCready up.

     “Haylen says I can keep it,” he replied with a smile, “Though I was totally prepared to be a pirate.”

     Nora gave him a stern look over the top of her sunglasses. “How in the world did you get caught up with Dr. Holdren?”

     “My sources informed me that someone had been asking about you around Diamond City and the Castle.”

     “Aren’t people always asking about me?”

     “This guy asking about you showed up at the Castle,” Deacon replied, “Claimed he was a doctor that studied in Diamond City, but I couldn’t find anyone that knew him.  So I started following him.”

     “When did you find out he was Institute?”

     “I didn’t, until after he’d grabbed me.  At least, not for certain.”

     “How did this happen?” Nora asked, gesturing at his bandaged leg.

     “Made a run for it, walked into a grenade.”

     “That was smart.”

     “Hey, I never said this was my best work,” Deacon answered, still grinning at her. “But we all made it out alive and with all four limbs, didn’t we?”

     Nora sighed. “Just promise me you’ll stay put until that’s healed.”

     “Boss…”

     Nora held up a hand. “Please, Deke,” she said, “We’ll get word to Dez that the coast is clear, but don’t make me beg you, alright?”

     He shifted uncomfortably, unwilling to meet her gaze, when James walked in, also looking gray and overtired, eyes shaded with a pair of large sunglasses.

     “Seems like I’ve started a new trend.”

     “She encouraged me to drink to excess,” James replied, motioning at Nora as he seated himself.

     “Without me?” Deacon asked, pouting at Nora. “I’m hurt you didn’t include me, Professor.  I thought we had an understanding after that night in Goodneighbor.”

     “I think I need to hear that story,” James said, lifting an eyebrow. “After I get rid of this headache.  Any chance I can get morphine here?  I’ll pay any price.”

     “From Haylen?” Nora asked, “Not likely.  She’s stingy with painkillers.  More likely, she’ll hand you a cup of root tea or something.”

     “It’s healthier for you,” Haylen answered as she came through the door from the storage area. “There’s little baggies of my gourd flower tea in there; help yourself.”

     “I’ll try anything,” James replied and stood, making for the supply closet.

     “Don’t mess up my organization, please,” Haylen called after him, then turned to Nora. “I’m glad I found you here.  There’s someone at the Red Rocket asking for you.”

     “Who is it?”

     Haylen shrugged apologetically. “No idea, she wouldn’t tell me her name,” she said, “Sturges told me she came by yesterday while we were out, but he was in a hurry and I didn’t get any details.”

     Nora nodded and stood, holding in a sigh.  She’d woken up that morning – three hours late, of course – to an empty bed she didn’t remember getting in, Shaun and Hancock gone, and a stack of notes about people who wanted to see her, things that needed her attention. 

     “Did she say anything else?”

     “No,” Haylen said, “She has a little boy with her – her son, I assume – and he’s pretty sick, but she won’t let anyone do more than hand her a Stimpak.  Seems pretty spooked for some reason.”

     Nora frowned.  Some synths had acted the same, skittish and secretive, but none had ever asked for her – or anyone – by name.

     “Why don’t you come with me if you can?” she asked, “Maybe I can convince her to let you look at the kid or bring him back here.”

     “Works for me,” Haylen said, “Let me grab some supplies.”

     As they made their way down the main road towards the Red Rocket, Nora looked over at Haylen.

     “How’s Mac?”

     “No permanent damage,” Haylen replied, giving her a sad smile. “They did a number on him, but he’ll back to normal in a few days.  I’m more worried about Duncan, really.”

     “Yeah,” Nora agreed, mentally adding them both to the list of people she needed to stop in on before the end of the day.

     The Red Rocket wasn’t busy, only two of the usual caravans waiting around for customers from the settlement.  The garage door was open but Cait didn’t seem to be doing much business, greeting them with a wave and a dark glance inside the station.

     “Be careful,” she said, “Kid’s coughin’ up something pretty disgustin’.  I was this close to coming to get you.”

     “They’re in the back?” 

     Cait nodded and went back to counting her stock as Nora chewed her lip anxiously.  She pushed her sunglasses off so she could see better and peeked around the corner.  The woman, knelt next to a boy curled along a cot, looked up at her and Nora’s jaw dropped.

     “Allie?”

     The Institute scientist jumped up and crossed the distance between them in two quick steps, throwing her arms around Nora.  Tears streaked her wan, dirty face and she was dressed in rags, thinner than Nora remembered her.

     “I was hoping you’d come by,” Allie said, stepping back with her hands still grasping at Nora. “We need help.  He – he’s sick and I don’t --”

     “Is that Quentin?” Nora asked, nodding at the little boy.  Allie nodded and Nora brushed past her, leaning down to look at him.  He was as pale and thin as his mother, cheeks flushed, and a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead.  Nora could see him trembling despite the heat and the blanket he was under.  She touched the back of her hand to his forehead and winced.  He was burning up.

     “How long has he been sick?”

     “A week,” Allie replied, “I gave him all the medicine I could, but he’s just getting worse.”

     “Coughing, body aches?”

     Allie nodded eagerly. “Yes, do you know what it is?”

     “Not for certain,” Nora replied, “But it sounds a lot like the flu.  Haylen, stay over there – it’s really contagious.”

     “What about you?” Haylen asked, craning her neck to look from her position several feet away. “If it’s an infectious disease, we need Curie.”

     “I agree,” Nora replied, “Allie, we can take care of him up at Sanctuary.  We really need to get him out of here.”

     Allie swallowed hard and nodded. “I trust you.”

     “Okay,” Nora said, her mind racing. “Haylen, I think we’ll need a quarantined room for them.  Clean water and something to control his fever.  Have Preston or Sturges or whoever get on the radio and figure out where Curie is.”

     Haylen nodded. “Be careful, please?”

     Nora gave her a reassuring smile and she turned and hurried out the door towards Sanctuary.  Allie gave Nora a worried frown as she lifted Quentin up off the bed and into her arms.  He was much lighter than she had expected.

     “What’s ‘the flu’?”

     “It’s a virus,” Nora explained, “Don’t worry; whatever it is, I’m sure Curie will know what to do.”

    

     Nora tilted the rusted kettle slowly, filling Allie’s mug with scalding water.  The dried leaves Haylen had given them floated to the surface as the water turned dark brown and Allie stared down into it miserably.

     “Tell me everything,” Nora said encouragingly, filling her own mug and sitting down across from her.  Allie sighed and took a tentative sip of the tea.

     “When – when the evacuation order went out, it activated in-house relays,” she said, “Scientists, civilians, and then synths.”

     Nora nodded.  She had heard the same from Elizabeth, Anne’s surrogate, many months ago.

     “The relay point was our back-up location,” Allie continued, “A place the Coursers scouted and kept clear for us in case of any catastrophe that forced us to leave the Institute.  An empty Vault northwest of here.”

     “Not everyone made it.”

     Allie looked up at her and nodded. “My husband Nathan and I got there fine.  Oberly, Higgs, Loken, Alana Secord…most of us.  The children relayed in okay and some of the other adults.  The synths never came and just two Coursers made it through.”

     “Do you know if the relay malfunctioned?” Nora asked, her chest tightening with anxiety.  By the time she’d made it into the main section of the Institute, the only ones left behind had been Coursers and first and second-gen synths.

     “It’s possible the coordinates were confused or scrambled,” Allie replied, “I don’t know.  I’m…”

     She trailed off and sniffed, wiping at her face.  Nora looked down into her cup of tea as guilt weighed on her, bowing her shoulders like a physical burden.

     “I’m sorry, Nora, but Shaun didn’t make it through the relay, either.”

     Nora looked up and gripped her mug hard, struggling to hold it all in. “I know,” she said, “He refused to leave.”

     Allie met her gaze for a moment and then nodded and looked away.  Silence hung between them for a long time before Nora cleared her throat and sat up straight.

     “What happened in the Vault?” she asked, “What brought you here?”

     “About a month ago, I think, one of the Coursers came back from a scavenge run,” Allie answered, “He fell ill overnight and it spread.  There were only six of us and Quentin left when I decided to look for help.”

     Nora took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m sorry, Allie,” she said, “I’m sorry that I couldn’t help you guys before.  Who was left?”

     “Myself and Dr. Oberly,” Allie replied, “Eve and the Binets and the other Courser, Z1-15, and Quentin.”

     “Did anyone else leave with you?”

     “Liam Binet,” Allie said, “Alan was ill.  We split up outside one of the other settlements.  I think he went south.”

     “Would you be able to help us find the Vault again?”

     “Maybe.  Will you be able to help them?”

     “I’ll do everything absolutely possible,” Nora said.  It was her last promise to her son.

     “Thank you.”

     Nora wanted to tell her that she was the last person to be thanked, remind her that it was her fault she’d lost her home, her friends, her husband, but she just nodded.

     “There’s someone here you should see, Allie.”


	47. Progress

**The Institute, Fall 2288**

 

     Allie was certain she had never seen anyone as angry as Nora was in that moment, leaned over the conference room table, eyes closed.  She was holding a set of Brotherhood holotags and a dusty, scratched watch, fingers wrapped around them so tight that her knuckles had turned white.  She knew Nora angered easily, as did her son, but this was different.  Underneath the anger was a sadness that Allie could see as she turned and looked directly at her.

     “You don’t improve humanity by killing humans!” she snapped at her, loud enough that Allie jumped a little in her seat. “You don’t advance mankind by hiding underground and conducting amoral experiments on our families and our farms and our drinking water.  You don’t help us by hoarding your technology away from anyone who disagrees with you.”

     Allie felt as if she’d been slapped in the face.  Blood rose in her face and she opened her mouth to reply, but realized she didn’t have anything to say.  She glanced back at Shaun, who had fixed his mother with a stern glare, his brow furrowed, dark eyes matching her anger.

     “Your father died protecting you from this.”

     Allie swallowed hard and looked down at Nora’s hands again.  The gold watch she was holding had belonged to someone, possibly someone Nora knew personally – and that person was dead.  A pair of children on some aboveground farm had seen what they thought was their father killed.

     She looked up to say something to Nora, but before she could, she pressed a button on her Pip-Boy and disappeared in a flash of white-blue light.  Allie sat there, shocked into silence.  She heard a chair squeak and turned back to Shaun and Ayo.

     “Deactivate Nora Wilson’s Courser chip,” Ayo said into the intercom, his finger held firmly over the blue button for Advanced Systems.  Allie looked up at him, aghast.

     “What are you --”

     “She asked for it to be deactivated,” Shaun replied, cutting her off.  His brow was furrowed deep, a line across his forehead and his dark eyes hard.  She swallowed her response and nodded, folding her hands in her lap like a chastised schoolgirl.

     “We’ll pick this up tomorrow,” Shaun continued, pushing back from the table. “Ayo, please see me in my quarters in an hour.”

     Allie wandered back to her work, but couldn’t concentrate.  She felt unsettled, restless, and distracted.  After staring at a terminal screen for an hour with no progress, she gave up and headed to the commissary, sliding into a seat across from Madison.  The stern, dark-haired woman was picking absently at her lunch, but when Allie sat down, she glanced up and arched her eyebrows.

     “I heard Nora visited earlier,” she said simply.  Allie sighed and nodded.

     “She found out about some of the replacements,” Allie answered, digging her fork into a green food supplement. “She wasn’t very happy about it.”

     “She should have been told from the beginning,” Madison replied.  Allie frowned and took a bite of her food, but it was tasteless and mushy and made her queasy.

     “She’s an outsider,” she said, “We can’t trust outsiders with things like that.  She would have been told eventually.”

     “I’m an outsider,” Madison answered, pinning Allie with that no-nonsense stare she was so good at. “You trust me, don’t you?”

     “Of course I trust you.  You’ve proven yourself trustworthy.”

     “Did anyone give Nora a chance to prove herself trustworthy?”

     Allie sighed in frustration. “We don’t have time to coddle every surface dweller who wanders in,” she said, “We all have enough work to do without sitting down with her and explaining everything we do, our motives, our reasons.”

      “That’s fine,” Madison replied reasonably, shrugging. “But given that, you can’t really be surprised by her reaction.”

     “She asked for her Courser chip to be deactivated,” Allie said, “She’s cut ties with us.  With her son.”

     “Her son is a sixty-year-old man,” Madison said, “Who didn’t exactly roll out the welcome wagon for her, did he?”

     “Of course he did,” Allie shot back defensively, “He offered her everything.  _We_ offered her everything we could.  A home, a _safe_ home – with clean water, and radiation-free food, and a chance to be part of something meaningful.”

     “Really?  I didn’t hear she had begun working with any of the divisions.”

     Allie held back her scowl. “She’s not a scientist,” she replied, “She was a _lawyer_ before the war, for heaven’s sake.  We don’t need that down here.”

     Madison nodded in agreement. “Probably not,” she replied, “But I doubt she really wanted to be Kellogg’s successor instead.”

     “Shaun was going to make her the _Director._ ”

     Madison gave her a sardonic smile. “You know that wouldn’t have happened,” she replied quietly, “Not if people like Ayo or Loken had anything to say about it.”

     “Then what would you have done?” Allie asked, shoulders slumped. “I feel for her, I do, but – but if she can’t accept the progress that we’ve made, and be willing to make sacrifices --”

     “I think she has made sacrifices,” Madison answered, “Quite a few of them.”

     She pulled a battered holotape from her pocket and slid it across the table surreptitiously.  Allie glanced down at it and saw a scribbled note on the side – _Brian Virgil personal log 0176._

     “Someone left that in my quarters a few days ago,” Madison said, “Listen to it when you have some time alone.”

     She smiled and stood, taking her tray with her and disappearing into the hubbub of the commissary.  Allie frowned and hesitated, then slipped the holotape into her coat pocket.

 

**Abandoned Vault, Spring 2289**

    

     The smell of sickness was everywhere.  The bodies had long been carted down to the incinerator and everything scrubbed clean, but Allie could still smell it.  It clung to the walls, the furniture, her hair and clothing.  Disease had been all but nonexistent in the Institute and now it was everywhere.  They couldn’t stop it; all of their intelligence and education had been useless against the onslaught of invisible attackers.

     Perhaps it was better than starving to death, at least.

     Allie looked over to the elevators, the ones that led to the blast door and the surface, her breath shallow and painful in her chest.  She was barely strong enough to get out of bed, but she knew she had to leave.

     “Liam, this is madness,” Dr. Oberly insisted, shaking his head. “You can’t go out there.  You’ll die before you get a hundred feet --”

     “We’re going to die in here!” Liam exclaimed, his face red with anger. “If the synths can survive up there, it can’t be that bad.  I can look for help.”

     “The synths are different than us,” Dr. Oberly snapped, “They’re immune to radiation, they don’t need as much food or sleep or…”

     He cut himself off in frustration, shaking his head. “Your father wouldn’t want you to risk your own life up there.  You don’t even know where to go.”

     “We could find Nora Wilson,” Allie interjected.  Her voice was still hoarse, her throat scratchy and dry from all the coughing she had done in the last few days.  Dr. Oberly and Liam both looked at her as if she had lost her mind.

     “Nora Wilson?” Dr. Oberly repeated, “You do remember she’s the _reason_ we’re in this mess, don’t you?”

     “She didn’t bring the disease into the Vault.”

     “If she hadn’t destroyed our home, it wouldn’t matter,” Liam answered, “Besides, how do you know she isn’t going to shoot you on sight?”

     “Why would she have evacuated us if she wanted us dead?” Allie asked, “I’m not suggesting we all move into her settlements and become Minutemen – but she has resources.”

     Liam opened his mouth to reply and then closed it, looking at Allie as if he were considering her point.

     “You’re both insane,” Dr. Oberly said, “Certifiably insane.”

     “I don’t want to see my son die without doing _something_ to stop it,” Allie answered, as firmly as she could without a voice. “I don’t care who I have to ask for help.”

     “I’ll go to Bunker Hill,” Liam replied, “Do you know where to find her?”

     _If for some crazy reason you’re ever on the surface and need help, find me in Sanctuary Hills._

     Allie nodded. “I know the name of a place,” she said, “I’ll find it.”

     “At least take Z1 with you,” Dr. Oberly said, “Don’t split up.  Please.”

     “He’s ill,” Allie replied, “He won’t be any help to us.”

     Liam nodded in agreement. “Let’s go.”

     An hour later, they were slogging southwest through the rain, the rising sun at their backs barely peeking through the cloud cover.  Quentin seemed listless, distracted, but he plodded along beside her, hunched into the jacket she’d found for him.  The rain refused to let up for long, soaking them to the bone in fits and spurts.  They didn’t encounter anything as they walked, just a mutated deer and her fawn, two pairs of heads blinking slowly at them across a clearing before they bounded away into the trees.

     The sun had begun to dip low onto the horizon when they came across the first sign of human civilization since the Vault, a massive concrete and steel structure of some sort, bridge-like, half-collapsed onto the empty land beneath it.  As they neared one of the gigantic columns holding the structure in the air, Allie spotted a sign painted sloppily on the side.

     _outpost zimonja – traders welcome_

     Underneath the words was a strange lightning bolt symbol and an arrow.

     “I’m going to leave here,” Liam said, stopping them underneath the structure. “Good luck, Mrs. Filmore.  Stay sharp, Quentin.”

 

**Diamond City _,_ Present Day**

Nick found Martha McDonough in the same place he usually found her, parked at the far table outside the Dugout Inn, sitting alone with a book open on the table beside a bowl of stew.  She didn’t look up until he slid into the chair opposite, a long smile spreading over her face.

     “Hey, there, old friend,” she said, setting her spoon down. “Been awhile.”

     “It has,” Nick agreed, “How’re you doing?”

     She shrugged. “Same old, same old.  Trying to keep busy, you know.”

     Nick nodded and glanced at her book. “What’s that one about?”

     She closed the cover and turned it to him.  _The Complete Poems of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow._

     “Used to read it to the boys,” she said, “Patrick found it for me a long time ago on one of his scav runs.”

     Nick nodded and sat back, taking her in contemplatively.  He trusted Nora to do her best, but he knew Hancock could be stubborn at best, and the last thing he wanted was to get Martha’s hopes up and then shatter them all to hell.

     “Nicky, I’m flattered, but this old widow is past her romance days,” Martha said, grinning wickedly at him. “Something on your mind?”

     Nick waited a moment, then nodded.  Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

     “I wanted to talk to you,” he said, “About John.”

     She sat up straighter, the smile vanishing. “Is he alright?”

     “He’s fine,” Nick assured her, “Doing pretty good, actually.”

     “Yeah?”

     “He’s – uh – got himself a special gal,” Nick continued, “I talked to her a few days ago and she thinks she can get him to talk.”

     Martha let out a heavy, relieved breath. “’Bout damn time.”

     “I can’t guarantee anything,” Nick replied.  Martha closed her book and raised an eyebrow at him.

     “Look, Nick, I consider you a great friend,” she said, “I always have.  I appreciate everything you’ve done and I can understand that you were just respecting his wishes all these years, but it’s time you told me where I can find my son.”

     Nick smiled at her. “Alright.  Can you leave in the morning?”


	48. Complications

     Nora sat back in her chair with a heavy sigh as Preston and Ronnie looked at her expectantly.  They had been holed up in the common house for over two hours, debating the fate of Clayton Holdren.  They each had different ideas and had come to a deadlock over it.

     “If we can’t agree, then we need to bring in the rest of the command,” Preston said after a moment, “Put it to a vote.”

     Nora nodded, rubbing a tight muscle in her neck. “You’re right.”

     Ronnie stood. “I’ll call them in.”

     Nora closed her eyes and leaned forward on the table, head in her hands.  She heard Ronnie boot up the radio and then Preston leaned over and put a hand on her shoulder.

     “I know what you’re going through,” he said, “But you did your best.  They didn’t leave us a choice.”

     Nora gave another stiff nod.  She had tried to call a truce with her son; he had responded with an unprovoked attack on the Castle. 

     Didn’t make it any easier to stomach.

     “Take a break,” Preston continued, “The rest of the command won’t be here for a few days, at least.”

     Nora grabbed his hand and squeezed gratefully. “Thanks, Pres.”

     She plodded out of the common house and back towards the clinic, glad to be out of that stuffy room and moving again.  The rain had let up for the day, leaving Sanctuary bathed in hot, damp sunshine.  The sun was close to setting, hanging low over the horizon and casting brilliant orange and pink streaks across the sky.

     Inside the clinic, Haylen and Curie were huddled over a table, chatting in low tones with a stack of folders and papers between them.  When she entered, Haylen looked up and beckoned her over.

     “We might have figured out what Quentin is sick with,” she said, “You guessed kind of right – it’s a mutated form of the influenza virus you guys used to deal with prewar.”

     “You’re sure?”

     “Not entirely,” Curie admitted, “But the information we’ve gathered on Quentin’s symptoms and the spread of the illness in the Vault seems to fit.”

     “The Brotherhood called it Waste Fever,” Haylen added, “They gave everyone vaccinations when they joined up since it was pretty rampant down there in the Capital.  Danse and I are safe, and any settlers here who have had it before.”

     “Is there any way to treat it now?”

     “We can only treat the symptoms,” Curie replied, “But with fluids and food, Quentin has improved some.  I think he’ll recover before long.”

     Nora let out a long sigh of relief. “You guys have no idea how good that is to hear.”

     Haylen smiled. “Curie suggested sending some blood samples down to Vault 81.  They might have the ability to synthesize a vaccine like the Brotherhood does.”

     “Sounds like an excellent idea.  Whatever you need from me, you’ve got it.”

     “As many samples as we can get,” Curie answered, “Mrs. Filmore and Quentin would be a great start, but if there are other Institute survivors, samples from them could also help.”

     “We’ll also want something to give the Vault in exchange for using their facilities,” Haylen added, “Bartering goods, so to speak.”

     “I’ll talk to Allie,” Nora replied, “And send someone to the Vault to hash it out.  You guys are great.”

     Both women beamed at her. “Thank you, madame,” Curie said, a faint pink tinge to her cheeks. “It is my pleasure, really.”

     “If you’re going to visit Quentin, be really careful,” Haylen said, “He’s still kind of contagious and your prewar immune system might not have the ability to fight it off.”  
     Nora nodded dutifully and made for the room they’d sequestered Quentin in.  Charon stood outside the door, arms crossed over his broad chest as he stared absently at the wall.

     “Dr. Holdren wished to visit with the child,” he said as Nora approached, not meeting her eyes. “I assumed that as long as he was under guard, you wouldn’t mind.”

     “It’s fine,” Nora answered, waving a hand dismissively. “Thank you, Charon, for doing this.”

     He nodded stiffly and Nora tried not to flinch.

     “Charon, I apologize for snapping at you in Fort Hagen,” she said, “You were well within your rights and instructions to do what you did.  Anything involving the Institute is kind of a sore spot for me, is all.  I wasn’t really upset with you.”

     He nodded again, but Nora seemed to notice the line of his shoulders relax a bit.  He side-eyed her and then looked back at the wall.

     “James is right, your face is going to get stuck that way.”

     “It already is.”

     Nora smiled and knocked on the door, then opened when she heard Allie answer quietly from inside.  Quentin was asleep, curled on his side and still as a log.  His color looked a bit better but Nora stayed back against the door as Haylen had advised. 

     Clayton, sitting opposite of Allie with his wrists still bound, fixed her with a death glare.

     “I hope you realize what you did.”

     Nora took a deep breath and looked away from him to Allie. “Is he feeling better?”

     “He seems to be sleeping better than he has in a week,” Allie replied, brushing her fingers through her son’s hair.

     “Curie and Haylen think they might be able to synthesize a vaccine,” Nora said, “They wanted me to ask for your permission to use any blood samples they’ve taken from the two of you.”

     Allie looked taken aback by the request, but nodded. “Of course.  Will it help Quentin?”

     “It would only be preventative, but they think he’ll recover just fine.”

     “Talk about miracles,” Clayton muttered acidly.  Nora felt his eyes on her but didn’t say anything.

     “Clayton, please,” Allie said, giving him a pleading look. “This isn’t the time.”

     “You wouldn’t be in this mess – _Quentin_ wouldn’t be in this mess – if she had left well enough alone,” Clayton replied, frowning at her. “He’s in danger because of what she did.”

     Nora gritted her teeth as his words twisted a knife in her chest.  She could feel her hands shaking as she grasped for the door knob and slipped out of the room as quickly as possible.  Two voices screamed at her inside, one insisting that he was entirely correct, another quietly reminding her that his attack had put Sanctuary in danger.

      What was going to happen if the command voted to execute him?  Would the rest of the Institute retaliate again?  Was she doomed to spend her whole life worrying that the differences she’d had with her son had started an unending chain of revenge and violence?

     “Nora?”

     She felt Charon’s heavy hand on her shoulder and realized she’d stopped in the dark hallway, face buried in her hands.

     “I’m fine,” she said, sucking in a deep breath and shaking herself.  Charon pulled his hand away and Nora straightened.

     “I’ll send someone over to give you a break for the evening.”

     “I’m okay continuing my watch, Nora.”

     “I know.  But you have to eat and sleep sometime.”

     He nodded in acknowledgement and Nora left the clinic, trying to get a handle on everything in her head.  She needed to make sure there was room for the three extra people coming, figure out where Hancock and Shaun had disappeared to, find a relief guard for Charon, look in on Duncan and Danse…

     A breeze ruffled her shirt and she realized with a grimace that she also needed a shower.

     The bathhouse was deserted as usual during that time of the day, the sounds of the settlement far away as she slipped behind a faded curtain and stripped down, tilting her head into the flow of water.  It was only lukewarm but refreshing nonetheless, rinsing away the sweat and grime of the last few days as she let her mind go blank for a while.

     “Hey, love.”

     Nora startled, her heart jumping into her throat.  She grabbed at the water pipes to keep from slipping and steadied herself.

     “Shit, John, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

     “Sorry.  Thought you had heard me.”

     Nora glared at the silhouette on the curtain but didn’t say anything.  An awkward silence fell between them as she lathered up.

     “I need to talk to you.”

     “Uh, can it wait?”

     “You know anywhere else we’re gonna get some peace and quiet?”

     He had a fair point. “Alright.”

     She heard him sigh and shuffle outside the stall. “Shaun heard us arguing last night.  Woke up real moody so I took him out shooting for a while.  I figured he needed something to get his mind off it.”

     “That’s where you were all day?”

     “Yeah,” Hancock replied, “Look, Nora – I acted really stupid.  I know that doesn’t fix it, but I’m sorry.”

     Nora let out a heavy breath and turned back into the spray of water to rinse off. “It’s alright.”

     “It’s not alright.  I was an asshole.”

     “There’s a reason I didn’t say anything.”

     “You don’t have to explain to me, I know it wasn’t --”

     “I was scared, John.”

     There was a beat of silence before he answered. “Scared?”

     “When I had Shaun, there were a lot of complications,” she replied, “Complications I was told were likely to happen if I got pregnant again.”

     She watched the silhouette outside the curtain shift nervously. “What kind of complications?”

     “Placental abruption,” Nora recited, the words stuck in her head even after so long. “The placenta detached before birth.  The baby was in distress and I bled…a lot.  They had to do a c-section.  Thinking about that possibility out here, with just the clinic…”

     Hancock suddenly pulled the curtain back and stepped inside the stall, pulling her to him even as the water kept flowing.  She stiffened but he didn’t let go, both arms around her waist and his face pressed against her neck.

     “I’m such an ass, Sunshine,” he whispered against her wet skin, “I didn’t even think about what you might be going through.”

     Nora felt herself relax against him, worn out both physically and mentally. “I didn’t know how to bring it up.  I kept thinking about how stressed Nate got over me, and how Anne’s surrogate died.  I just didn’t want to put that kind of pressure on you.”

     He squeezed her and kissed the side of her head. “You’ve gotten close enough to dying plenty of times,” he said, thumbing the bullet scar over her hip. “I’ve been stressed over you since the night you walked into Goodneighbor with Nick.”

     She flinched at the touch.  Getting shot at had never scared her that way, but the possibility of a complicated childbirth had frozen her in her tracks.

     “I didn’t mean to make it all about me,” Hancock continued, “I’m a selfish jackass.”

     “I forgive you,” Nora replied, resting her head against his shoulder. “You’re getting all wet.”

     He pulled one hand away and turned off the pipes, the faucet squeaking.  Nora suppressed a shiver as the air hit her chilled skin.

     “Next time you’re scared about something, don’t keep it to yourself.  Promise?”

     She nodded into his damp coat. “Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, announcement time.
> 
> You guys can blame boomslang for this one.
> 
> Aforementioned reader/commenter mentioned a forgotten character. Muse perked up (like how dogs do when you say "walk"). Muse refused to leave me alone (like how dogs do when you don't immediately grab the leash).
> 
> SO....
> 
> The planned part 3 has now become part 4. The *new* part 3 will be much shorter than 1, 2, and 4, but you'll be on a bit of a cliffhanger for some storylines brought up in Unfinished Business.
> 
> So, yeah. Unfinished Business only had a few more chapters to go anyway, but...well.
> 
> Ta-da?


	49. Mom

     George wandered into the dark hallway, stepping quietly to avoid waking anyone up.  Codsworth had powered down in the corner next to Anne’s crib, playing a soft classical tune, and he could see the shadowed lumps of Nora, Hancock, and Dogmeat on the bed in the master bedroom. 

     “Grandpa?”

     He stopped and leaned on the threshold of Shaun’s room. “Thought you’d gone to bed, kiddo.”

     “I couldn’t sleep.”

     “Something wrong?”

     Shaun shrugged, sitting cross-legged on his bed and toying with the hem of his pajama pants.  George nodded and sat down on the edge of his own bed, pushed against the opposite wall.  Shaun avoided his eyes.

     “You can talk to me.”

     “Do you know what’s going to happen to Dr. Holdren?”

     George hesitated a moment. “Not for certain.  Depends on what the Minutemen decide.”

     “Everyone says he paid those raiders to attack us,” Shaun said, “Is that true?”

     “Yes.”

     “Why would he do that?”

     George sighed and shifted on the mattress, trying to think of a way to explain the situation.  He’d never had to discuss such a delicate, difficult thing with a child as young as Shaun; prewar, he could shield Jane and Nora from most things until they were older and better able to understand.

     “Sometimes when people lose things important to them, they want to hurt whoever they think is responsible,” he said after a few minutes, “Dr. Holdren blames your mom for losing his home.”

     “But why would he hurt Mr. MacCready and Deacon if he’s mad at Mom?”

     “He thought that if he hurt your mom’s friends, he could get her to do what he wanted.”

     No need to mention the other mercenary who had apparently had some sort of vendetta against MacCready in the first place; explaining “leverage” was difficult enough without adding “the enemy of my enemy is my friend” into the mix.

     Shaun nodded and slid off his bed, wandering to the window.  A tattered Minuteman flag hung over it in place of curtains and several model robots were lined up on the sill.  He grabbed a silver sentry bot and fiddled absently with it.

     “Mom didn’t want to hurt anyone,” he said, speaking to the sentry bot. “She told me when she got me out of the Institute.  That’s why she made everyone leave before she blew it up.”

     “Yeah.”

     “It makes me mad that someone would want to hurt her,” Shaun continued, still staring down at his model. “She’s nice to everyone and she takes care of them.”

     “I understand, kiddo,” George replied, “I always felt the same about your grandmother.”

     “It’s not fair.  He wanted to hurt Mom but he hurt everybody.  Duncan was really scared and he’s even littler than me.”

     “And you’re mad about that.”

     “I’m mad at Mom, too.”

     George took a deep breath and nodded. “Why are you mad at her?”

     Shaun shrugged and dropped the model robot onto the sill with a clank.  Still avoiding George’s eyes, he climbed back onto his bed and stretched out on his stomach, pillow balled underneath him.

     “Kiddo, it’s okay to be mad at your mom.”

     Shaun shrugged and stared at the wall. “I don’t want anyone to hurt her.  If he’s around, he’ll try to hurt her.  She should just kill him.”

     George winced a bit at the hard words coming from such a young kid.  At ten, he was fairly certain neither of his girls had even fully grasped the concept of death, much less that of execution.  He let out a breath and glanced around the dim room, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu.  He’d helped decorate it when Nora was pregnant, painting and wallpapering with Nate’s brother, assembling the crib with Nate mere days before she went into labor.

     He felt something brush his hand and glanced over to see Renee sitting next to him. “Jim and Ellen bought that beautiful dresser for him,” she whispered, staring into the corner. “I can’t believe it’s all gone.”

     Even Shaun himself, his great-grandson, long gone.  _Stolen_.

     “Grandpa?”

     “Sorry, kiddo,” he said, mentally shaking himself. “Just thinking.”

     Shaun nodded and looked away. “Are you going to tell Mom?”

     “Tell her what?”

     “What I said.”

     “No.  But you should.”

     “She’s always busy.”

     “If you ask her,” George said, “I’m sure she’ll make time for you.  She loves you.”

     Shaun rolled to his side and met his gaze. “I know.”

     “Get some sleep, kiddo.”

     George reached over and flipped off the lamp, then toed off his boots and lied back, head pillowed on his arm.

     “I like having you here, Grandpa.”

     He glanced over and gave him a weak smile in the dark.  Jane sat on the edge of the bed, one hand resting protectively on Shaun’s shoulder.

     “I like being here.”

 

     Nora woke with a start, sitting up in bed and fumbling on the side table for her Pip-Boy, only to find it wasn’t there.  Sunlight streamed through the windows and the bed was empty.  She’d overslept.  _Again_.

     She whipped back the blankets and grabbed her jeans off the floor nearby, stepping into them and trying not to stumble as she shook herself out of sleep.  She could hear Shaun in the living room chatting over the clank of silverware on plates; a warm, sweet smell drifted down the hall and made her mouth water.

     “Hey, back in bed.”

     “John, I’ve got so much to do today --”

     “No, you don’t,” Hancock replied, shutting the door behind him.  He was carrying a bowl of what looked like mutfruit and razorgrain, steam rising from the surface.

     “Sit back down for a hot minute,” he said, thrusting it at her. “Eat.”

     “I don’t have time to eat,” Nora replied as her stomach rumbled.

     “Make time,” Hancock answered, “It’s only eight, anyway.”

     Nora took the bowl with a sigh and lifted a sticky spoonful to her mouth. “I have to get moving.”

     “No,” Hancock replied emphatically, “You’re takin’ the day off, love.”

     “I can’t take a day off.”

     “Yes, you can, and you will,” he said, taking a seat on the bed and pulling her down with him. “Look, Nora – in the last few weeks, you’ve been shot in the gut and strangled, in addition to picking up some weird parasite and getting gassed.  You need to rest for at least a day.”

     “I’m fine,” Nora insisted, avoiding his eyes as she dug into her breakfast. “Really.  I’m feeling much better.”

     “That’s good, but it doesn’t change facts.  You’ve been going nonstop for weeks and you need a break.”

     Nora sighed and set the bowl on the side table. “But there’s so much that needs to get done…”

     “It’ll get done,” Hancock said, “But as for you – park it.  I’ll tie you to the bed if I have to.”

     Nora raised an eyebrow. “Promise?”

     “We’ll see,” Hancock answered, leaving a kiss on her ear. “Eat your breakfast.”

     “Am I at least allowed to leave the bedroom?”

     “No escape attempts.”

     “Scout’s honor,” Nora replied, holding up her palm. “What’re you going to do?”

     “Someone at Abernathy Farm claims to have seen mutants lurking up in the hills,” Hancock said, “Shaun and I are going to go check it out.”

     “ _Mutants_?” Nora repeated incredulously, “John, you know he’s nowhere near ready for that.”

     “I didn’t say we were gonna actually try to take ‘em out.  I said we’re going to _look._   You trust me, don’t you?”

     “Of course I trust you,” Nora answered, taking a deep breath to quell her anxiety. “Just…please be careful, alright?”

     “We’ll be back in a few hours.”

     He kissed her and took her now-empty bowl, calling for Shaun as he left.  Nora leaned back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling contemplatively.  Hancock was right; she hadn’t taken time to relax in ages, but shutting off the litany of her mental to-do list was another thing entirely.

     She finished dressing just as Dogmeat pushed his way into the room, wagging his tail and looking at her curiously.

     “Hey, boy,” she said, scratching his ears. “Thought you’d have gone with Shaun.”

     He whined at her and padded back into the living room.  Nora followed, wandering into the living room where Anne was plunked down amongst a mass of toys with George.  He squeezed a rubber alien and made it squeak; Anne squealed and giggled in delight.

     “Finally taking a day off?”

     “John forced me to,” Nora replied, plopping herself onto the couch with Dogmeat.

     “Always the workaholic,” George said, squeezing the alien for Anne again. “Part of being a leader is learning to delegate, you know.”

     “I delegate plenty,” Nora answered defensively, “Sometimes we just don’t have enough manpower.  And sometimes things I have to do myself.”

     George gave her a sympathetic smile. “Just remember that if you don’t take the occasional minute to breathe, you’ll run your motor into the ground.  I wasn’t much older than you when I made myself sick working overtime for six months straight.”

     Nora grimaced to herself and looked away.  It had probably been about six months since she had taken more than a few hours to sit around and take it easy.  She glanced around the house, the place that had changed so much it was barely recognizable of the little place she and Nate had bought.  Her furniture was patched and stitched together, the windows empty of glass.  Her pristine copies of the Massachusetts Penal Code had been replaced with faded, water-stained books and ancient comic books.  There were no family photos on the walls, just a few gun racks and the mounted stinger of a radscorpion Hancock had saved her from once.

     “Why are there yardsticks nailed to the wall?” Nora asked, noticing the odd adornment on the corner by the hallway.  George looked up and smiled.

     “It’s Shaun’s growth chart.”

     “His growth chart.”

     “Yep,” George replied, “He said Preston measured him a while back.  He’s four feet, eight inches tall.  He wants to be measured again on his birthday next week.”

     “He doesn’t grow.”

     “You know that for certain?”

     “It’s what I’ve heard, I guess…”

     George nodded. “There are synths implants, aren’t there?  Wouldn’t someone have noticed their friend or loved one suddenly not aging?”

     Nora frowned to herself as she stared at the yardsticks.  Kellogg had been over a hundred years old, his life prolonged by Institute technology.  Was it possible that was all that made synths static?

     Dogmeat startled her out of her thoughts with a sharp, excited bark.  Anne squealed and reached for him as he bounded off the couch and out the front door.  Nora stood and seconds later, Nick appeared in the doorway.  Dogmeat wove excitedly between his legs, licking at Nick’s metallic hand and sniffing his shoes.

     “Morning, General,” he said, stepping in and wave. “And family.  Got a visitor for you.”

     He stepped aside and let someone inside next to him.  Nora felt her heart jump into her throat.  She had completely forgotten about asking Nick to speak with Mrs. McDonough.

     “Hi,” she said stupidly, taking a step forward before tripping on one of Anne’s toys.  Nick reached out and steadied her with a sardonic chuckle.

     “Did you forget we were coming?”

     “No,” Nora lied, “I didn’t expect you so soon.  Um…come in, you can sit --”

     She scrambled to shove Anne’s mess of toys out of the way and picked the girl up, her heart thudding nervously.  Her grandfather gave her a questioning look.

     “I’m sorry,” she muttered, “Mrs. McDonough, I’m Nora, John’s wife.”

     “Call me Martha,” the woman replied, “John got _married_?  Is -- is she his?”

     She nodded to Anne, balanced on Nora’s hip, her eyes wide.  She had dark, bright eyes, the same shape as Hancock’s, curly black hair streaked with gray that she had pulled back into a sensible ponytail.  Nora could see her elder son, Guy, in the shape of her face and the identical birthmark, a little round dot like a freckle, on her chin.

     “Um, yeah,” Nora answered with a weak smile, “Adopted.  We call her Anne.”

     Martha grinned and touched Anne’s curls briefly. “Is he here?”

     Nora glanced around, flustered, before George spoke up. “He and Shaun went to Abernathy Farm, remember?”

     “Oh, right,” Nora said, “I’m sorry, I’m off this morning.  Sit down, please.”

     “Nora, you look really familiar,” Martha said as she joined her on the couch, “Are you from Diamond City?”

     “No.  Been there a lot.  You’ve probably heard my name in connection with the Minutemen.”

     Martha furrowed her brow and then nodded. “Yes.  You’re their new general, right?”

     “That’s me.”

     “Okay,” Martha said slowly, “I had heard so many rumors that you ran with the mayor over in Goodneighbor.”

     Nora swallowed and glanced over at Nick. “I do,” she said, “John is the mayor over there.  Mostly, he’s sort of mayor-in-absentia now.”

     “But that man is --”

     “There’s a lot to explain, Martha,” Nick interjected, “A lot.  You know the story best, Nora.”

     Nora nodded and glanced down at Anne.  The girl was chewing on her fingers, gumming her ring and drooling happily.  Time to rip the band-aid off.

     She started speaking, spilling as much as she knew of what had happened after Hancock left Diamond City.  He had never given her many details, preferring to leave them in the past, but Nora tried to be coherent and honest.  She glossed over some of her own details, trying not to throw too much at the woman all at once. 

     Martha listened silently the entire time, nodding occasionally.  When Nora finished, she let out a long breath and looked over at her with watery eyes.

     “Sounds like my John,” she said, “Is it weird that I’m not surprised at everything he’s done?”

     Nora smiled. “He doesn’t know I asked you to come,” she admitted, “We’ve been busy, so I didn’t have time to prepare him.”

     Martha looked ready to say something but was interrupted by Dogmeat, who jumped from his spot at Nora’s feet with a happy bark and trotted out the door.  Nora rolled her eyes.

     “Every time someone walks by…”

     “Uh, Nora, he’s --”

     “Alright, Sunshine, fair warning, but Shaun decided to adopt two new pets --”

     Nora winced as Hancock froze in the doorway, staring at his mother on the couch.  Hancock in all his mayoral glory, face shaded by his hat and the hem of his red coat splattered with mud, shotgun slung over his shoulder and a cigarette in the other hand.

     “John?”

     Martha stood and rushed to her son, throwing her arms around his shoulders so hard he staggered back.  He dropped his cigarette, shocked into silence.

     “You stupid, selfish man, you’ve worried me so much,” Martha said, her voice wavering as she continued to hug him. “After your brother, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

     She let go of him and stepped back just as Shaun came running up, pushing past Hancock to Nora.

     “Mom, look!” he shouted, “Mrs. Abernathy’s cat had a litter of kittens and she said they were old enough to come home with us!”

     He held out a tiny, sleek tabby kitten.  It hopped out of his hands and onto the arm of the couch, rubbing against Nora’s arm affectionately.

     “Oh, Shaun, really --”

     “What’s going on?”

     He looked over at Martha, who smiled before rounding on Hancock again.

     “You ran off and then you got _married_ without even a letter,” she accused, punching him in the shoulder. “You have _two children --_ ”

     “Ow, stop it, Ma,” Hancock answered as she smacked him again, “Seriously.”

     “You’re as thick as a brain-dead Brahmin,” Martha replied, pulling him closer again. “I’ve missed you so much, John.”

     Nora watched as he relaxed a moment and put his arms around his mother, her chest swelling.  He caught her eye over Martha’s shoulder and gave her a small smile.


	50. Of the people, for the people

     “…he’s silver, so he’s going to be the Silver Shroud,” Shaun was saying to the assembled breakfast guests, “And since this one is his sister, she can be the Mistress of Mystery.”

     “And this is Grognak,” Duncan chimed in, holding up his own kitten for inspection. “Now we just need a Manta-Man and the Inspector--”

     “We’re not getting two more kittens,” MacCready replied as Nora shook her head, “One is enough.”

     “You’re sure you want to name them after superheroes, Shaun?” she asked, handing out plates. “That’s kind of a mouthful.”

     “You could call them Silver and Missy for short,” Haylen said, smirking at Nora. “We could always use more kittens, RJ.  I’ve always liked cats.”

     “Mrs. Abernathy said her cat had _six_ babies, so we could have all the Unstoppables and then--”

     “Don’t even think about it,” Nora answered, “I think Dogmeat and two kittens are enough.”

     “You’re no fun,” Duncan declared, glaring as MacCready nodded in agreement.

     “We know,” Nora replied, planting a kiss on his head as she passed. “Let them go play while we eat.”

     Both boys gave her impressive pouts but put the kittens down, claiming spots at the end of the picnic table.  Nora headed back into the house to check on the food, the kittens mewling at her heels.  She glanced up and through the old kitchen window in time to see Deacon wandering past through the hedges.

     “Deke!”

     She dropped the lid back onto the pot and bolted out the door towards him.  He froze like a startled radstag as she shoved through the dead brambles, turning back to her guiltily.  James was with him, both packed up as if ready to hit the road.

     “Where are you going?”

     “Back to HQ,” James replied, shrugging. “It’s been a week; figured it was time to check in.”

     “Haylen cleared me to hit the road,” Deacon added, “No time to waste.”

     “She cleared you for light duty,” Nora answered, crossing her arms. “That means walking around the settlement, not wandering through the city.”

     “Have you been listening in on my private medical appointments?” Deacon asked her, frowning in a way that she knew held no animosity.

     “This is Sanctuary Hills,” she replied, “There’s no such thing as privacy here.  Come have breakfast with us.”

     “Nora…”

     She sighed and held up a hand. “I know,” she said, “I know, James, you’re still – still smarting from what happened at Evergreen.  And you have every right to be.  Deacon, I know that social interaction sends you into panic mode.  I get it.”

     She took a deep breath as the two Railroad agents glanced at each other. “But I’m not asking you to forgive my grandfather or join the family or make lifelong friends.  It’s my last day off and I just want to have breakfast with the people I care about.”

     “We gotta get moving…”

     “Just one hour, please,” she said, tilting her head pleadingly. “Besides, I need to check in with Dez, too.  Hancock and I are already packed and ready.  We’re just going to eat.”

     “Haven’t been away from home enough lately?” James asked.  Nora sighed.

     “If I had my way, I’d stay another week at least,” she said, “But shit’s gotta get done.  And I figured it would be best if the Institute remnant could start to settle in without me around.”

     “You guys found them?”

     “Some scouts from Zimonja,” Nora said, “Preston and Allie left in the vertibird this morning to talk to them.  Look, I don’t really want to discuss the Institute or anything relating to it right now, okay?  Please come have breakfast with me.”

     James heaved a dramatic sigh. “Alright, Professor.”

 

     “Professor.  Good to see you back, finally.”

     Nora stiffened as she met Desdemona’s gaze. “Desdemona.”

     “We’ve been hearing some interesting news trickling down from Sanctuary,” Desdemona continued, looking away long enough to dig a lighter from her pocket and flick it open in front of a fresh cigarette.

     “Dez, I don’t have time to pussy-foot around,” Nora replied, dropping her bag at her feet. “Say what you need to say, alright?  A lot of things happen at Sanctuary.”

     Desdemona let out a stream of smoke and frowned at Nora. “Do you have members of the Institute living there?”

     The two women faced each other, a wall of tension between them so thick it seemed to leak into the rest of the tomb.  Nora could feel everyone watching them -- Drummer Boy and Deacon, Carrington and Hancock, James and Tinker Tom, Glory, even PAM.  Silence made the tension thicken.

     “Yes,” Nora replied flatly, “The Minutemen recently discovered the location of the survivors and have given them refuge.”

     “What about the one that attacked?  The straggler who, if rumor proves true, attacked a settlement and attempted to kill you after kidnapping one of my agents?”

     Nora clenched her jaw. “Dr. Holdren is under guard.  The Minutemen command will decide what happens to him in the next few days.”

     “You want to let him go.”

     Nora exhaled through her nose, tamping down her irritation. “Stop beating around the fucking bush, Desdemona, and spit it out.”

     “Do you still have the Railroad’s best interests at heart?”

     And there it was.  Nora forced herself to stay silent a moment, to gather her words before unleashing them.

     “I have always had the synths’ best interest at heart,” she said, “I have always had the people’s best interest at heart.”

     “The people?”

     “Desdemona, we’ve had this discussion before,” Nora replied sharply, “I’m the General of the Minutemen, you knew that when I signed up.  Anyone who comes to me for help can get it as long as they play nicely.”

     “Even if they haven’t ‘played nice’ in the past?”

     “I don’t care what they did in the past,” Nora answered.  She could feel Deacon’s eyes boring into her.

     “Even if they have been the immediate enemy and gone against every last tenet we believe in?”

     “Yes, Desdemona!” Nora snapped, finally letting out some of her frustration. “The Institute was not some faceless boogeyman in the dark.  It was made of _people_ , people who have asked for my help and will always get it, whether they’re synth or human.”

     “Having Institute survivors inside Commonwealth settlements is a massive security risk,” Desdemona shot back, flicking her half-burnt cigarette to the side. “It puts every synth we’ve helped in danger.  It places the synths – including your son --”

     “Don’t you dare bring my son into this,” Nora snarled, fists clenched at her sides. “He is not a pawn you can try to use against me to get your way.”

     “He is a synth,” Desdemona answered, unfazed by Nora’s outburst. “The Institute represents a very real threat to his continued autonomy.”

     “The Institute is gone!” Nora shouted, her voice reverberating around the tomb.  If everyone hadn’t already been staring at them, they sure as hell were now.

     “The Institute is a radioactive crater in the middle of Cambridge,” Nora continued, leaning towards Desdemona. “It’s _gone_.  I destroyed it.  The last two known Coursers are dead.  The only survivors are sick and starving and I will not abandon them to the wasteland.”

     “Then I was right to question your loyalty to our cause.”

     “You will never know the depth of my loyalty to freeing synths,” Nora seethed, itching to reach out and hit the other woman. “You can’t possibly understand, Desdemona.”

     “Then make me understand.  Give me a reason not to cut you loose right now.”

     Nora closed her eyes, seeing H2-22 outside of Ticonderoga, timid but thankful.  Gabriel, X6-88, the synths at Bunker Hill, all the ones that had been lynched or recaptured before she could get to them.  Synths made from her son’s DNA, the only living link to Nate left.  Evidence that Nathaniel Wilson had once existed, that he’d died protecting his child.

     “Nobody needs to prove their loyalty today, least of all her,” Hancock said suddenly, interrupting the silence.  He laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed.  Nora fought back against the surge in her chest; while it wasn’t a secret that her son had been the tyrant on the throne, Hancock was the only one she’d told about her genetic link to the synths.

     “You have to trust me, Desdemona,” she said, her voice cracking. “I know the risks of bringing survivors from the Institute into my settlements.  I know that there are still dangers and there’s still work to be done.  But you have to trust, one leader to another, that I can do this.”

     Desdemona sighed and leaned over her desk, head hanging. “I want to, Professor,” she said, “But we’ve been burned too many times.”

     “Then consider this my resignation,” Nora replied, “Find me if you have an emergency, but if you can’t see the bigger picture, then I need to step aside.”

 

     Outside the church it was raining again.  Nora stood and lifted her face into it, letting the cold droplets run down her forehead and cheeks.

     “Did you call the vertibird?”

     She shook her head. “I didn’t want to bring any attention to this area.  Figured we’d just stay the night in Goodneighbor or something.”

     “Fine by me,” Hancock replied, “You alright?”

     She shrugged and let out a shaky breath. “As much as I can be.”

     “It’s their loss, love.”

     “I know.”

     She turned and laid her forehead on his shoulder.  He pulled her closer, his warm, rough hands on her back, cheek pressed against her head.

     “You’re doing the right thing,” he continued, “Bringing the survivors in.  You’re showing them all what it means to be a decent human being.  If anyone faults you for that, it’s their problem.”

     Tears leaked out of the corner of her eyes as she squeezed them shut, breathing in the dirt and smoke smell of his coat.

     “I’m so tired of the conflict,” she whispered, “I’m so tired of looking at people and trying to figure out if they’re a friend or an enemy.  I want…”

     She couldn’t quite put into words what she wanted.  She’d had it, whatever it was, for a short time that morning.  A little bit of peace, sitting with to Mac and Haylen as they planned for their upcoming child, listening to Duncan and Shaun chatter away, watching her grandfather and Martha coo over Anne, shooting the breeze with her husband and her friends.  No one looking for revenge or vying for control.  No violence, no accusations, no heart-wrenching grief.  No guilt chewing her up inside and leaving a husk of what she had once been.

     “Hey, what did I tell you?” Hancock said as she let her tears fall onto his shoulder. “No matter what happens, we still got us.  I’m always in your corner, love.”


	51. Lyssa Again

     The evening was still and hot, the windless air hanging against George like a damp blanket.  He sighed and shifted from one foot to the next, leaning against the empty windowsill.  The sun was setting fast, blue shadows falling on the woods just past Nora’s backyard.  Some of the old hedge had been cut away, giving him a direct line of sight to the makeshift shooting range across the stream.  Shaun was back there practicing, scarlet lasers growing gradually brighter as the evening dragged.

     Shaun and the _paladin._

     George ground his teeth.  Aching pain shot through his jaw but he ignored it.

     Nora had relented to let the boy leave the settlement more often if he trained with the weapons and learned to use them properly.  The last few lessons had been given by her mercenary friend, but the guy had begged off that night and the paladin had shown up at the door instead.  George would have preferred to break his arm, but Shaun had leapt off the couch towards him before he could even open his mouth.  He knew Nora would kill him if he made a scene.

     “How did we go from selling off those bastards to living peacefully with them?”

     George ignored the voice and turned away from the window.  He heard a last laser twang as he parked himself at the kitchen table, waiting stiffly for Shaun to come back.  After a few minutes, he heard footsteps coming up the pathway and Shaun’s voice.

     “…they’re a lot lighter than the ones everyone else uses, I like them.”

     “They get heavier with modifications, but yes, the reduced weight is good for beginners,” the paladin’s voice responded, “You’re welcome to try it again anytime.”  

     “How many paladins did we manage?  Two or three?”

     George scowled but didn’t respond as Danse and Shaun appeared in the open doorway, illuminated by the soft lamplight.

     “I think it was three.  Three paladins, seven knights, twelve scribes, and fifteen initiates.  Not bad for what, half a year on the job?”

     “Grandpa, you should come with us tomorrow,” Shaun announced, “You can try the laser pistol, it’s really easy to use.”

     “I’ve always preferred a good old-fashioned rifle,” George replied, fixing his gaze on the paladin.  The man stiffened, eyebrows coming together as he gave a tiny frown. 

     “Those are too heavy for me, though,” Shaun complained, oblivious to the silent stand-off. “Where’s Mrs. McDonough?”

     “She went for a walk,” George said, tearing his gaze away from the paladin briefly.  He heard a familiar, taunting snigger.

     “He looks like a serious tight-ass.  The most Brotherhood-y of the Brotherhood.  Not bad on the eyes, though.  You think Nora might have --”

     George stood suddenly, bumping the table and knocking over a few bottles of water.  Shaun jumped and the paladin’s frown deepened.

     “Is something wrong?”

     “I’m fine,” George snapped, “Shaun, why don’t you go look for Mrs. McDonough?  Get some fresh air.”

     Shaun looked a bit confused but did as suggested, bobbing out the door and into the darkening settlement.

     “Oh, if they haven’t bumped uglies a few times, he’s sure thought about it.  I mean, you _know_ how he looks at her.  When he’s not high and psychotic and trying to strangle her, that is --”

     “Shut the fuck up,” George hissed, digging into his forehead with the heel of his hand.  The paladin stepped back, looking alarmed.

     “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, “I can find Haylen or Curie, if you need anything…”

     “I’m perfectly fine,” George snapped, glowering at the man standing in Nora’s kitchen. “Please leave.”

     The paladin looked taken aback but only nodded and left, scurrying out as if he’d been scalded.  George stood there with his hand pressed against the burgeoning pain in his forehead, a white-hot spike shoved into the center of his skull.  Stars danced against his eyelids as the spike threatened to split his head in two.

     “Mr. Doyle, sir?  Is something wrong?”

     Codsworth’s mechanical voice reverberated around his skull and the pain crawled down the sides of his head like tendrils of fire.  He groped blindly for his chair and his knees buckled, sending him to the floor with a bone-jarring thud.

     “Oh, come on, Deimos.  A little _dramatic_ , don’t you think?”

     George pressed both hands to his temples and let out a strangled groan.  The pressure of his palms seemed to ease the pain just enough for him to open his eyes.  Codsworth hovered next to him, eyestalks wide and quavering.

     “Sir, shall I get one of the doctors?”

     He shook his head furiously.  The motion sent pain ricocheting through his skull and neck but he pushed past it and pulled himself back up.

     “Mr. Doyle, sir, I really think --”

     “I’m fine, dammit!”

     Blinking, his eyes watering, George stumbled out of the kitchen and down the hallway.  Weaving like a drunk, he managed to find his way into Nora and Hancock’s room, letting himself collapse down in front of the bedside table where he knew there was a stash of chems.  He grabbed the handle and yanked, growling in frustration when it wouldn’t budge.  Locked.

     The pain hadn’t subsided, but he seemed to have hit the peak.  His fingers shook as he fumbled for his pocketknife and flipped it open, stuffing the blade into the crack between the boards.  He pulled it towards himself, grunting with the effort.  The lock didn’t budge.  He pushed the blade in a little further and wrenched it again.  The lock popped and the blade snapped, the drawer sliding out with a loose clatter. 

     He pulled the drawer out and pawed through the contents, shoving aside inhalers of Jet and little tins of Mentats.  There were a few syringes, unmarked except for a bit of red tape around the tube – special diluted doses of Med-X he knew Nora used on occasion.  The spike in his forehead twisted as he kept pushing chems aside.  Finally, in the back of the drawer, hidden behind a half-empty brown bottle of pills, he found it – another syringe, a longer, skinnier one than the Med-X.

     _Calmex._

     The drug had worked for Renee for a while after she started hallucinating.  George fell back on his butt and pushed up his sleeve, fumbling with the needle.  Three false jabs later, his head throbbing as though it had been under a sledgehammer, he got the needle into a vein and depressed the plunger.

     The effects hit in less than a minute – his racing heart began to slow, the spike in his head began to ease out, the hot fingers of pain cooled and loosened their grip on his jaw.  He drew in a deep breath and let the needle drop to the floor.

     “Sir?”

     “Just…just a headache,” he managed as Codsworth floated in, eyestalks blinking. “I’m fine.”

     “Are you sure?”

     “Yeah, I’ve had them before,” George lied, “Crash migraine.  I’m alright.”

     There was an awkward pause as George took another deep breath.  The Calmex crawled through his bloodstream and the pain began to ebb away bit by bit.

     “Would you like some water, sir?”

     “Yes.  Yes, please.”

     The robot floated away and George sagged, back against the edge of the mattress.  There were chems all over the floor and he’d broken his pocketknife and the drawer.

     “Grandpa?”

     Shaun’s voice floated down the hall.  George hastily shoved the chems and the broken drawer under the bed and pulled himself up, arthritic joints creaking.  The residual pain of his headache spiked as he stood and he steadied himself against the wall momentarily.

     “Be right there, Shaun.”

     Nora and Hancock wouldn’t be back for at least another day; he had time to fix the drawer lock.  As long as he brushed it off and didn’t mention it again, he could probably rely on Codsworth not to say anything.

     George moved slowly out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.  He took slow, careful steps, glancing into Anne’s room to make sure she was still asleep, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible.  Shaun and Martha were in the living room, side by side on the couch and a half-empty box of Fancy Lads between them.

     “There’s six per box, Grandpa, so we each can have two,” Shaun informed him.  George smiled and shook his head.

     “You go ahead, kiddo,” he said, “Last thing I need right now is a bunch of sugar.”

     “Something wrong?” Martha asked him, head tilted slightly.  She had the same knowing, inquisitive stare as her son.

     “I’m too old,” George replied, a lame attempt at a joke. “You okay here for a moment?”

     “Of course,” Martha said, “This kid’s an angel compared to the way my two were.”

     “I’ll be right back.  Quick errand.”

     He left the two of them there in the living room and hurried down the road, making a beeline for the clinic.  It was completely dark by then but the clinic was impossible to miss – a line of salvaged neon lights had been hooked up to the side of the building, blinking the words _doctor – open_ in brilliant red and white.

     Curie was the one inside, settled comfortably at a table with a stack of books open in front of her.  When he stepped inside, she looked up and smiled.

     “Monsieur Doyle,” she said, “Nothing is wrong, I hope?”

     “Curie, can I talk to you?”

     “Of course,” she said, gesturing to the other seat on the opposite side of the table.  George took it gratefully.  His legs felt wobbly and uncoordinated, his muscles jelly.

     “What can I do for you?”

     “I need your help with something,” George said, “What – what do you know about ghouls?”

     “Ghouls?” Curie repeated, “Ah – only what I have observed.  Medically speaking, they are not all that different from humans.”

     She shifted her books around and pulled out a small, handmade leather journal, handing it over to him.  He flipped open to the first page, where a title page had been drawn up in slanted script.  _The Anatomy and Physiology of Ghouls – C.V.R.I.E._

“Have you ever…” George closed the book and took a deep breath.  It was hard to say the words out loud.

     “Have I ever what?” Curie prompted.

     “I need you to promise me something before we go further, Curie,” George said, “I need you to promise me that everything I tell you will be kept between us.”

     “Of course, Monsieur,” Curie replied, “All my dealings with patients are confidential.”

     “I don’t – I don’t want Nora to know,” George said, “That you’re even treating me.  I know she can be…persistent.”

     Curie nodded silently, her round, innocent face serious. “What problems are you having?”

     “I’m losing my mind,” George blurted, scrubbing his face with one gnarled hand. “It’s – it’s what happened to my wife.”

     “I am not sure what you mean.  I had only heard that your wife died in the Capital last year.”

     “Renee was murdered,” George answered harshly, his chest still tight with anger at the thought. “She was murdered because she had gone feral.”

     Curie nodded again. “I am sorry to hear that, Monsieur.  Are you afraid the same is happening to you?”

     “Yes,” George admitted, “Renee – she hung on for a decade.  We were in an all-ghoul community and I think that helped.  I don’t think – I probably won’t have that long.”

     Curie sat back in her chair, hands folded neatly on the table. “You would like me to help you through this transition?”

     George sighed and closed his eyes. “I don’t want to die,” he said, “Not – not anymore.  But I can’t hurt my grandchildren.  I need something to keep the – the _symptoms_ under control.”

     “Alright,” Curie said, and stood.  She crossed the room to a filing cabinet against the wall.  George rubbed his eyes.  His headache was still there, a dull throb behind his eyes.

     “So useless,” Lyssa taunted, her voice close to his ear. “Useless old _George._   You could have done so much more.”

     Curie sat back down and handed him a pen and a clipboard with a blank sheet of paper on it.  His name had already been written along the top left corner.

     “Your patient file,” she explained, “Please write down all of your symptoms and then we can do an exam.”

     George clicked the pen and held it over the paper for a moment.  With an internal sigh as Lyssa scoffed at his side, he began to write.

_Migraines.  Insomnia.  Visual & auditory hallucinations.  Increased sense of smell…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize again for the slow (for me) updates. Rain + tile + flip flops = impressively sore and bruised left arm. Not my dominant one but typing is slower. Hope you enjoyed this update, though -- only three or four chapters left!


	52. A Jury of His Peers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this turned out to be a realllllly long chapter because it just didn't feel right ending in the middle. Didn't flow properly, etc., etc.
> 
> Which means...there are two more chapters left, then on to part 3!
> 
> Enjoy.

     “Did Deacon ever come back from the bathroom?”

     Nora set her bottle of Bobrov’s down and twisted in her seat, carefully scanning the room for her friend.  After a long day of running between Bunker Hill and Diamond City, trying to track down Liam Binet, they’d settled in for the night in Goodneighbor, topping off the evening in the Third Rail.  Word had spread about Nora and Hancock’s commitment and the bar had welcomed them loudly, music and chatter and constant well-wishers pulling the two in every direction.  Nora had managed a thirty-second escape to catch Deacon on the stairs, accepting his excuse without thinking before being pulled back into the congratulatory party.

     “Probably turned in for the night,” James replied, “He didn’t seem like the social type.”

     Nora bit her lip and glanced over at Hancock, who shrugged.  He didn’t agree or disagree, but the look he gave her made it clear he didn’t think Deacon had “turned in” at all.

     “He’ll be alright,” he said as Nora worried the label of her bottle, throwing an arm over her shoulders. “He never stays gone for long.”

     Nora grumbled something inaudible and downed the rest of her drink as Hancock pulled her towards him possessively.

     “Take a night off from being everyone’s big sister,” he muttered, kissing her ear. “The nice folks of Goodneighbor saw fit to throw us a party and we’re going to enjoy it.”

     Nora turned her head and kissed him. “You’ve got ulterior motives.”

     He threaded his fingers through her hair, palm resting on the back of her neck, and scoffed lightly. “And you’re Miss Innocent, right?”

     “I am innocent,” Nora replied with a smile.  The rest of her answer was lost as he kissed her again, harder, more purposeful.  Nora marveled for a moment at how he still managed to set her heart racing before a loud _ahem_ interrupted them.

     Fahrenheit stood over them.  She smirked at Hancock with one hand on her hip. “I tried to tell you she’d be a distraction,” she said, but her tone held no venom. “Not to interrupt, but – trade caravan just came back, insists he’s got to speak to you about some raider group.”

     “Unless they’re at the gate with mini nukes, it’ll have to wait.  I’ll see him in the morning.”

     “I told him that, but he wouldn’t leave me alone until I promised to let you know,” Fahrenheit replied with a shrug, “See you in the morning.”

     “Make it closer to noon,” Hancock replied, signaling for Whitechapel Charlie to send over another round.  Nora smiled at him and James scoffed from his place nearby.

     “I’m going to go find a Loveless Losers’ corner and grab a seat so I don’t have to watch you two go at it anymore,” he declared, standing and shaking his head. 

     “I’ll join you,” Fahrenheit replied, and the two disappeared into the crowds together.  Nora watched them with her eyebrows raised.

     “He better be careful,” Hancock muttered as Charlie dropped a pair of drinks on the table. “I don’t think he’s in shape enough --”

     “And you know this how, exactly?”

     Hancock glanced at Nora guiltily. “For a while she, uh, took her duty as _bodyguard_ kind of literally…”

     “Oh, _she_ did, huh?” Nora replied, smirking to herself as Hancock shifted uncomfortably.

     “Years ago, Sunshine --”

     Nora laughed and tugged him close by one lapel, landing another kiss as the other patrons chattered on and Magnolia crooned jauntily in the background.

 

     With the Minuteman command in Sanctuary, the settlement seemed unusually somber.  Wiseman, having been nominated to represent the settlements in the east, had traveled all the way over from the Slog; along with Janet Harper from Somerville and Emmett Wilkes from Jamaica Plain, they made up the missing contingent that would decide Clayton Holdren’s fate.  The common house felt stuffy and sweltering with the seven of them inside, so it wasn’t long before Nora called for a break.

     They filed out and dispersed with murmured agreements to be back in an hour.  Nora made a beeline for the water pump, working the lever hard to get the water moving.  As it came splashing out, she stuck her head under, sighing blissfully as the icy water crawled down her neck and back.  Footsteps approached as she let the water run out and a gnarled hand offered her a towel.

     “Break time?”

     Nora nodded as she toweled her damp ponytail. “When I got out of the vault, I thought I was done with waiting for the jury to deliberate.  It’s exhausting.”

     “Longest I ever had to wait was two weeks,” George said, taking the wet towel from her. “Back in ’38.”

     “What was the case?”

     “Commonwealth of Massachusetts v. Norton.  Vigilante justice,” George replied, “My client murdered her son-in-law for abusing her daughter.”

     “Seems open and shut to me.  I’d kill any fucker who hit Anne or Shaun.”

     George shrugged. “It was technically against the law, but at least they took their time deciding.  Someone didn’t want to send her to prison.  You never had vigilantes?”

     “No, I just became one,” Nora replied, “I should go talk to Clayton.”

     “Want some company?”

     “Please.”

     Going from the sunny, blistering outdoor heat into the damp, dark cool of the vault set Nora’s teeth on edge.  She shivered involuntarily, trying to ignore the flashes of her past that played like a bad movie in the back of her head.  Vault 111 held nothing but bad memories; if she could have, she would have blown the place sky-high.

     Besides a few belligerent drunks and run-of-the-mill domestic arguments, Sanctuary Hills had never had never had internal trouble, and hence, no reason to lock someone up.  Vault 111 was probably as secure as was possible, especially with Charon standing watch – hence, the only place she felt comfortable stashing Clayton until they figured out what to do with him.

     “Need me to do the talking?” George asked as the elevator ground to a halt and Nora pulled the security gates open with shaking hands.

     “This isn’t the first day of school,” she replied, shaking her head. “Gotta buck up and do my own dirty work.”

     “It’s not ‘dirty work’, sweetheart.  You’re doing the right thing.”

     “Sure as hell feels dirty,” Nora muttered, raking a stray bit of hair out of her face.  George squeezed her arm comfortingly as they walked through the rad-scanners and towards the old staff quarters.  Nora faltered for a moment when she saw that Allie and Dr. Oberly were there, too, sitting clustered around an old table with Clayton.  Charon stood in the corner, dark and menacing as always.

     “Come to execute me?” Clayton asked when he saw her, his eyes burning with hatred.  Nora tried not to flinch and stiffened her back, gathering as deep a breath as she could muster with the anxiety roiling in her gut.

     “Nothing has been decided yet,” she said, “We’re taking a recess and then we’ll continue deliberation.”

     Damn, how easy it was to slip back into her old lawyer’s shoes.  The vocabulary rolled off her tongue, smooth and emotionless but not monotonous.  The courtroom, the only place she’d ever felt confident in herself after walking away from the ballet barre.  She took another deep breath and tried to pretend she was standing outside courtroom 34 again, discussing one of the dozens of cases she’d deal with that week alone.

     “What’s – what’s going on, exactly?” Dr. Oberly asked, meeting her eyes for the first time since they’d both been in Sanctuary. “What happened?  Clayton won’t --”

     “Newt, I told you it isn’t important,” Clayton snapped, glaring at the older man. “It doesn’t matter.  She’s taking matters into her own hands, as usual.”

     “Actually, I’m recusing myself,” Nora replied, “The Minuteman command is debating.  I’m supervising, keeping the peace, but I’m not participating.  They’ll vote by this evening.”

     “Debating what?  Voting on what?” Dr. Oberly asked, “Clayton – Clayton is my friend.  I want to know.”

     Allie nodded vigorously in response.  Nora cleared her throat and took a seat nearby them, within speaking distance but deliberately separate from the group.

     “About two weeks ago, there was a raider attack on Sanctuary,” she said, “They used a hallucinogenic gas to disorient us so they could kidnap one of my friends.  They took him to Fort Hagen, a little south of here, and handed him over to Clayton and an accomplice so they could use him as leverage to get to me.”

     There was a moment of deep, uncomfortable silence.  After a moment, Allie spoke.

     “To – to get to you?”

     “To _kill_ her, Allie,” Clayton snapped before Nora could answer, eyes flashing as he turned to her. “What’d you think?  I couldn’t stand by and let her – let her --”

     He floundered, fists balled as he slammed them down on the table.  Nora jumped at the sudden noise and Clayton stood, turning away from them and towards the wall.  Charon stiffened and pulled away from his spot a little, looking at Nora, but she shook her head briefly.

     “ _You destroyed it!”_ Clayton yelled, turning back to them furiously. “Everything!  Everyone!  You condemned us all to death.  We never did a single thing to hurt you!  We only wanted to help the surface!  Why couldn’t you have just left us alone?”

     For the first time when thinking about what she’d done to the Institute, Nora felt angry.  She _had_ tried.  She’d begged.

     “I tried to call a truce,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “I tried.  We were attacked in response.”

     “We never attacked people on the surface,” Clayton shot back, his lips a thin, pale line as he stared darkly at her.

     “It seems you have a lot to learn about what the Institute was and wasn’t doing,” Nora answered, quiet and tired. “Shaun kept things from you.  From everyone.”

     “She’s right, Clayton,” Allie said, her voice small but steady. “That’s why – why Madison left.  And Brian.”

     “What are you talking about?” Dr. Oberly asked sharply, brow furrowed.

     “Brian Virgil,” Allie said, “In Bioscience.  He didn’t die in some freak accident – he _left_ because Shaun wanted him to continue a line of research he felt was unethical.  He faked the accident and hid.”

     “He’s the one who helped me get inside,” Nora interjected, “He told me that I needed a Courser chip and showed me how to track one down.  He gave me plans to build a relay.  He’s alive and – well, I guess – in the Glowing Sea.”

     Dr. Oberly stared at Nora in shock. “He asked me to close the FEV lab down,” he said, “Told me it was contaminated, but – but I never found any actual _evidence_ of contamination.  And the records were redacted…”

     A trace of disbelief passed over his face and Nora felt a pang of sorrow for him.  She knew the look, the one that came when you discovered the cracks in the veneer and saw the trace of the lie underneath.  She was all too familiar with the sensation by now.

     “So what?” Clayton barked, his face red. “That’s – that’s the price of doing what we did.  It was for the _sake of humanity_.  We did it to save everyone.”

     Nora held up a hand. “It doesn’t matter, Dr. Holdren,” she said, “It’s done and you’re here now.”

     He glowered, arms crossed over his chest. “You killed _children_.”

     “No, I didn’t,” Nora said, “A virus killed them.”

     “Not the survivors in the vault,” he snapped, “My sister – she had a surrogate --”

     Nora felt her mouth go dry. “Your sister was Dr. Henderson?”

     “Jacklyn Henderson,” he replied, “She was a widow…”

     Nora stood and stepped out of the room, her heart hammering like a drum.  She leaned against the wall, her forehead pressed against the cold metal and her mind raced. 

     Of all the fucking coincidences.

     “Nora, sweetheart, are you okay?” George asked, placing a hand on her back.  She gulped in stale air and nodded.

     “Can you do me a favor?”

     “Of course.”

     “Get the kids,” she said, “All of them.  And Haylen.  Bring them down here?”

     “The kids?”

     “Shaun and Duncan.  Anne, Hazel.  Just – just tell them I need them for a few minutes and they’ll be perfectly safe down here.”

     George lifted an eyebrow and Nora waved a hand dismissively. “You’ll see.  Just please bring them down here.”

     “Alright, sweetheart.”

     He nodded and left.  Nora could hear the vault elevator wail and groan, taking him to the surface, and feel everyone’s eyes on her.  She let out a breath and rubbed her face, trying to dispel some of the panic in the back of her mind.

     “The synths disappeared into god-knows-where,” Clayton yelled out to her, “They all died, I’m sure, including the one carrying my niece.”

     “Charon, I’ll be back in a moment,” Nora said, ignoring Clayton.  Without waiting for an answer, she jogged down the short hallway to the bathrooms, miraculously still working.  She leaned over a dirty sink and splashed water onto her face, the cold bringing her back to the present as her face stung.  She needed a drink, too, but after her recent illness she wasn’t willing to risk not knowing that the purifiers were still active.

     Once she had a grip on herself again, she hurried back to the living quarters, pushing furniture and old junk out of the way, making a space for the kids.  The room Clayton spent most of his time in was actually an observation chamber, a look-out for the old security team from her time.  The boys would probably start complaining pretty quickly, so she booted up the old terminal and slipped her copy of _Red Menace_ out of her Pip-Boy and into it.

     Twenty minutes after George left, Nora heard the groaning of the elevator and then the loud slap of feet on the rubber floor mats.  In seconds, Shaun and Duncan came barreling around the corner and straight for her.

     “What the heck are we doing down here, Mom?”

     He stopped dead, looking into the observation room with wide eyes.  The three Institute survivors stared back in surprise before Nora grabbed the door and slammed it closed hastily.

     “I need to test some of the old equipment in here for a moment,” she said, trying not to trip over the lie. “Go around that corner – there’s an old room there I want you guys to hang out in.  Check out the terminal on the desk.”

     “Nothing’s happening up there again, is it?” Duncan asked, glancing warily as the ceiling.

     “Nothing at all, squirt,” Nora replied, “Go see what Shaun’s looking at, okay?  We’re not going to be here long.”

     Haylen, carrying Anne on her hip, and George with Hazel, followed, giving her questioning glances.

     “Are you doing what I think you’re doing?” George asked.  Nora gave him a tight smile.

     “Whatever gets him to understand.”

     “I think he does, sweetheart, he’s just too bitter --”

     “Then it doesn’t hurt to let me try, does it?”

     George sighed and shrugged. “I guess not.”

     “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but if it gets me out of the heat for a bit, I’ll do whatever,” Haylen replied, shifting Anne on her hip. “You need anything from us?”

     “No, just sit and hang out.”

     When they were gone around the corner, Nora opened the door again and slid inside, then yanked up the blinds.  The glass was a little cloudy, but she could still see through it just fine to where Shaun and the others had settled.

     “When I spoke to my son the last time before our assault,” she said, “He told me that the Commonwealth was dead.  That the Institute was the only hope for humanity.  Do you believe that?”

     She looked at Clayton, who seemed to be studiously ignoring the observation window.  He sneered at her.

     “Have you seen it?  It’s horrible.  It’s _disgusting._ ”

     “It looks pretty bad, I’ll give you that,” Nora replied, “I miss having a green lawn.  But’s it not dead.”

     She nodded at the observation window. “I’m sure you know Shaun,” she continued, “He’s a great kid.  He loves fixing things and making stuff.  Gadgets and computers and weapons – whatever he can.  The other boy is Duncan.  He and Shaun are attached at the hip.  He also loves computers, but also animals and comic books.  You kidnapped and almost killed his father.”

     Clayton’s sneer had dropped, replaced by a stiff, emotionless mask.

     “The woman there, her name is Sarah --”

     Nora pointed to Haylen, sitting cross-legged on the floor with Hazel propped on a pillow in front of her.  Her baby belly was obvious now.  Clayton spared them a brief glance and then looked back at Nora.

     “She’s Duncan’s stepmother.  About five months pregnant, and came very close to getting hurt or killed when those raiders you hired attacked.  Good thing she was okay, because she figured out what disease it was that Allie’s son was suffering from and devised a treatment.”

     “Lot of good it did for the dozens that died before Allie came to you.”

     “If I had known where they were, I would sent help immediately,” Nora replied, “That baby she’s playing with – that’s Hazel Garvey.  You remember Preston?  His daughter.  His wife was pregnant with her when _Father_ sent synths to attack the Castle where we were.”

     Nora turned away from the window for a moment. “Clayton, I understand what you’re going through.  I’m probably the only person on Earth who does.  I know what it feels like to lose everything.”

     “Then why did you do it?”

     “Because it had to be done,” Nora replied, “The science you were playing God with – it was wrong.”

     “It could have saved everyone.”

     “Not the way that it was being used.  Everyday, I wish there was something else I could have done.  I didn’t do it out of spite or revenge or anger.  I did it because I felt like it was the right thing to do.  A step towards helping the people in a real, tangible way.  When you attacked Sanctuary, you threatened those children.  They could easily have been hurt or killed.”

     Clayton folded his arms and glanced through the glass and then quickly away. “What sappy story have you got for the rest of them?”

     “You mean the ghoul and the other baby?” Nora asked, “Well, the ghoul is my grandfather.  Shaun’s great-grandfather.  He and my grandmother survived the bombs in 2077.  Too bad my son dismissed them and the dead world they survived in.

     “The baby is your niece, Clayton.”

     He looked over at her sharply. “What?”

     “Your sister’s surrogate,” Nora said, “M4-94?  She made it out of the Institute safely.  Some of my companions and I found her.  She hemorrhaged after she gave birth, but the baby was fine.  I adopted her, Clayton.  Her name is Anne.”

     He looked back at the window and Nora heard his sharp intake of breath. “Anne.”

     “You look at me and you see an adversary,” Nora said quietly, “A destroyer.  I understand.  But you’re here because of what you did to the people around me, not because of I’ve got some vendetta against the Institute.  I don’t.”

     Clayton closed his eyes and placed a palm on the glass.  He was pale and shaking.

     “If you show some remorse, Clayton,” Nora said, “If you own up to what you did – maybe, maybe I can get them to look the other way.  Maybe you can live out your life down here, start your research again.  Have Allie and Newton visit.  Have a relationship with your niece.  Isn’t it worth a shot?”


	53. Done and Over With

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, the last two chapters are here! Part 3 will be...soon. I'm (hopefully) teaching full-time this semester, so I want to get a head-start on it with my last few weeks of summer. Enjoy!
> 
> ALSO: Content/Trigger Warning for this chapter (suicide - not shown, but reader beware).

     She was lying.

     Clayton stared at the dirty ceiling tiles as the words repeated themselves in his head.  She was lying.  And all the others believed her.

     Water dripped somewhere, the drops echoing distantly as he lied in his prison as still as a stone.  This was his life.  She had won.

     He’d never see his home again.  The clean white walls, the rushing water, the ambient noise of his gorillas traipsing through their habitat.  He’d never have the same comfort or security.  If he was allowed to live, it would be in the confines of this ancient vault with the dripping water and the smell of death in the air.

     She wanted him to believe her lies.  For what?  So she could hold it over him for however long he might live down in this pit?

     Clayton sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.  The door to where he slept was closed; the ghoul standing outside the door as usual.  He had been given that little bit of privacy, as if it mattered.

     He wouldn’t let her decide his fate again.

 

     The sun was setting as the Minuteman command cast their vote.  Nora sat waiting for the little bowl of scribbled votes to make its way back to her, her chest tight and heavy.  She was exhausted, hot, and emotionally drained and the day wasn’t even over.

     Danse threw his ballot into the bowl and handed it to Nora.  She took it without response and set it in front of her, staring down at the papers for a moment before looking back up.

     “Thank you for coming,” she said, looking back up and squaring her shoulders. “I wish it could have been under better circumstances, but…”

     Her throat tightened and she paused for a moment. “You all know what I want,” she said, “But if you’ve voted differently, I won’t hold it against you.  And if execution has been ordered, I’ll do it.”

     “Nora, you don’t have to --”

     Nora held up a hand and Preston stopped, brow furrowed at her in frustration. “We share the burden.  If my command has decided that Clayton’s death is the best course of action, I will carry out that order.”

     Silence fell and Nora looked back down into the bowl.  It was like a fucking office party, scraps of paper in an offering tray for her.  Her breath caught in her throat as she began reading the votes.

 

     Hancock leaned back in his chair, his anxiety making it near impossible to sit still. He’d burned through six cigarettes since Nora and the command had gone back into the common house last, barely getting three puffs out of them because his hands shook so bad.  He was almost certain that the decision would be execution.

     “Doing okay?”

     He gave a short bark of jaded laughter as his mother came and settled into the chair next to him. “Not really.”

     “What’s on your mind?”

     Hancock sighed and stubbed his latest cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. “It’s nothing, Ma.”

     “Oh, bullshit,” Martha replied, snagging his pack of cigarettes and pulling one out for herself. “John, besides the fact that you’re shaking like you’re coming down, you’ve also been out here brooding for two hours.  I’m not blind, and I’m your mother.”

     She pulled a lighter out of her pocket and lit her cigarette, taking a drag and exhaling a long stream of acrid gray smoke.  Hancock glanced over at her and shook his head.

     “Nora and Nick kind of brought you around at the worst fucking time,” he said, “Lots of shit going on, got us all in a knot.”

     “So?” Martha replied archly, “You act like you don’t create drama wherever you go.”

     “I _don’t_ create drama.”

     “Oh, and this getup is just because the coat was comfortable?” Martha asked, waving a hand vaguely at his outfit. “Spit it out – what’s bugging you?”

     Hancock rubbed his temples and shook his head. “Nora.”

     “She’s bugging you?”

     “Not currently,” Hancock replied with a dark chuckle to himself, “No, what’s bugging me is how she’s going to handle everything that’s going on.”

     “With the, uh, Institute survivors?”

     “Yeah.  As if blowing the fucking place up hadn’t given her enough neuroses,” Hancock said, “Either the command is going to vote to execute and she’ll have to live with that guilt, or they’ll let him live and she’ll have a permanent reminder of what she did living just around the corner.”

     Martha nodded silently and took another drag off her cigarette before flicking the ash in a scarlet arc into the ashtray.  Hancock shuffled through his pockets, looking for a canister of Jet to calm his nerves for a few minutes, but thought better of it.  Shaun and Anne were both still up and he wanted to be as sober as possible for when Nora came back.

     “I’m not going to pretend to have any good advice,” Martha said after a few minutes of silence, “But, you know, everyone’s got reminders of the shit they’ve been through.”

     “I know.”

     “She’s been through more than her fair share, I get it,” Martha conceded, “But if she hasn’t gone under yet, I’d say the odds are in her favor.”

     Hancock didn’t respond.  Martha stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray and looked over at him briefly.

     “You can’t fix her,” she said, “And you can’t protect her from everything out there.”

     “I can sure as hell try.”

     “And you will sure as hell break yourself in the process,” Martha argued, shaking her head. “You know how hard I tried to keep you and your brother from the shit in this world?  And what happened?  You got tangled up in it anyway.  Best you can do is be there when she comes back.”

     Silence fell between them again and Hancock stared down at his boots.  He heard someone in the settlement behind him yell and then everything went quiet again.  He didn’t hear gunshots or the siren so he ignored it.

     “I’m sorry for running out on you, Ma.”

     Martha looked away. “Shush.  You did what you had to.”

     “I didn’t have to do that.”

     “Shut up, John.  Doesn’t matter.  I got you back; that’s all I care about.”

     He shook his head and wondered for a moment how many times he’d heard that _– shut up, John –_ now between her, Fahrenheit, and Nora.  Maybe they had a point.

     “Mister Hancock, sir!”

     Hancock jumped as Codsworth came whirling around the side of the house, mechanical arms flailing comically.

     “What’s wrong?”

     “Miss Nora needs you --”

     Codsworth said something else but he didn’t catch it, vaulting out of his chair and making for the common house.

     “They aren’t there anymore, sir, they went to the vault --”

     Hancock sprinted up the road as quickly as he could, anger clouding his vision red.  If Clayton fucking Holdren had somehow hurt his wife, he’d get that execution swift and sudden, Minutemen be damned –

     As he jogged up the pathway, Danse came around the bend, carrying Shaun like a small child.  The boy was sobbing into his shirt.

     “What the hell happened?  Is Nora alright?”

     “She’s fine,” Danse replied, “Shaun ran ahead, I didn’t even see him until he’d already gotten up there.”

     “Take him to the house,” Hancock ordered and kept running.  He crested the hill and stopped, his heart jumping into his throat.

     A ring of onlookers were gathered around what looked like a body.

     “Move out of the way,” he demanded, shoving past the settlers.  Clayton Holdren was on the ground, glassy eyes staring up at the sky.  Blood soaked most of his shirt from what looked like a wound on his arm.  Nora was on her knees next to him, weeping like Shaun had been as Preston held her.

     Hancock glanced around and saw Charon nearby, sitting in the dirt with his arms resting on his knees.  He looked shell-shocked, his hands and clothing bloody, staring into the middle distance vacantly.

     Hancock jumped as he felt a small body brush past his.  Curie. 

     The petite woman knelt and checked Clayton’s body, eyes and hands roaming over the bloody mess.

     “Everybody get the fuck out of here,” Hancock yelled, “Quit rubbernecking, you’re making it fuckin’ hard to breathe.”

     He got a few dirty looks but the settlers began to disperse, leaving behind himself and Curie, Preston, and Nora, Charon still spaced out nearby.

     “He did it himself, it looks like,” Curie said after a minute, looking back at Hancock with watery eyes. “Severed the brachial artery.”

     “He used this,” Charon said, his voice hoarse as if he’d been sobbing himself.  He held out a jagged piece of metal, about the size of a small blade, that looked like it had been pulled off a broken bit of machinery or furniture.  It was covered in rust and sticky blood.

     “I didn’t know he had it.  I went to get him when someone came to tell me a decision had been made and he was already unresponsive --”

     “It was not your fault, Monsieur,” Curie replied in emotionless tones, “A wound like that – it would have been impossible to save him.”

     Charon didn’t look convinced, but he dropped the shiv and looked away silently.  Nora was still crying, deep, wracking sobs barely muffled as she leaned into Preston’s chest.  Her shoulders shook and Hancock could hear her breaths coming in quick succession, ragged and shallow.

     “Get her out of here,” Hancock said, his voice low as he scrubbed his face tiredly. “Curie, can you -- ?”

     Curie nodded and stood. “Come with me to the clinic.  I can give you a gentle sedative.”

     Nora made no effort to protest, letting Preston help her stand as tears streamed down her red cheeks.  He threw an arm around her waist and guided her away, Curie leading them back down the path towards the settlement.

     Hancock looked down at the body and shook his head.  He was no stranger to dealing with this problem; Goodneighbor had its fair share of bodies.  Drunks and junkies that bit it in the street after one last trip, gangsters who had made the mistake of falling asleep and getting their throats slit, even a trader who had collapsed just inside the town gate, riddled with bullet holes.

     “Do the other Institute members know yet?”

     “Allie Filmore was with me when I found him.  I’m sure she’s shared the news by now.”

     Hancock nodded. “Let’s take him over to the cemetery.  Gotta bury him tonight or it’s gonna be nasty come morning.”

     Charon lifted the body as easily as if it were an infant.  Hancock stood back and pointed down the stream behind the settlement.

     “Go the back way, I don’t want to drag a bloody body through the street.”

     Charon nodded and started walking.  Hancock shook his head and swore to himself as Clayton’s bloody arm slipped away and bounced against the ghoul’s leg, limp as a molerat’s tail.

     One last _fuck you_ to Nora.

    

     Charon and Hancock dug a grave for the scientist in silence, a six by six hole in the hillside not far from the other gravesites.  Hancock could see the stone cairns even after the sun fell; there were markers for Nora’s grandmother, for Nate, for all of Nora’s neighbors who had been left to suffocate in their cryopods.  Two of the sites were for settlers, a pair who had bit it in the early days of Sanctuary’s new life, and now one for an Institute scientist. 

     Hancock cursed the man as they dug, sweat rolling down his back and blisters forming on the old calluses of his palms.  It took several hours before they had finished the hole and dropped Clayton’s body into it.  The moon rose as they shoveled the dirt back in, dappling the woods in silver-gray light.  Dogmeat wandered up as they were finishing, flopping into the dirt next to Hancock.

     He rubbed the dog’s head tiredly, pulling off his hat and wiping sweat away from his face.  Charon stood, leaning on the shovel and staring at the grave. 

     “In 263 years, I’ve never actually seen a suicide.  It was…shocking.”

     “Guess you’re out of a job now,” Hancock replied hollowly.  He had a lot of difficulty coming up with any sympathy for Holdren; he knew Nora had liked the guy while she was still visiting the Institute and she had wanted to let him live, but her judgment was clouded.  The fucker had threatened innocent people, including their family, to get his revenge on her, instead of confronting her directly.

     As far as he was concerned, the world was well rid of him.

     He felt Charon’s eyes on him as he stood and dusted himself off. “We’ll find you something better’n babysitting,” he assured the man, “Thanks for helping out.”

     Charon nodded curtly and followed him back into the settlement, slipping off toward the bunkhouse.  Hancock trudged back to the house, Dogmeat close at his side.  A small crowd was gathered on the carport, huddled around an oil lantern in a cloud of cigarette smoke.  Preston, MacCready, and George were all there, along with Curie and Danse, loitering like they were waiting for something.

     “Nora’s asleep inside,” Preston informed him, “You took care of the body?”

     “Buried with all the others.”

     Preston nodded. “Thank you.  I’ll let the others know they can decide what they want to do for him, if anything.”

     “Thanks for taking care of Nora.  And Shaun.”

     He nodded to Danse, who only nodded curtly back. “He’s inside with your mother.”

     Hancock said his goodnights and wandered inside.  Shaun was sprawled out on the couch, his head resting on Martha’s thigh.  He looked fast asleep, jaw a bit slack as she brushed her fingers through the tips of his hair.

     “He gave it up a few minutes ago,” she said, smiling up at Hancock. “He was trying to wait for you to get back.”

     Dogmeat slipped past Hancock and sniffed Shaun, leaving a wet lick on his forehead before hopping onto the couch and settling himself half on top the kid’s legs.

     “Is he alright?”

     “Little shaken up.  Saw a lot of blood and a lot of emotions and wound himself up.”

     Martha settled a hand on his arm and squeezed gently before jerking her head towards the bedrooms.

     “Go take care of your wife.”

     “Ma, you’re a saint.”

     “Goodnight, John,” she replied pointedly and Hancock held up a hand in submission as he left.

     Nora was turned away from him, staring out the windows, auburn hair fanned on the pillow.  Hancock sat down on the edge of the bed next to her, running his fingers gently through her hair.  She shifted, making space for him.

     “You should sleep, love.”

     She shrugged. “I dozed for an hour or two.  Lay down with me.”

     He did as told, shedding his coat, shirt, and boots and sliding down next to her on the mattress.  She rolled and curled into his side, resting her head under his collarbone and throwing her arm over him.  He stared at the ceiling as she reached for the scar on his chest and traced it with one finger, making gentle circles over the divot of smooth pink flesh.

     “I really hoped he would come around.”

     Hancock squeezed her to him and kissed the top of her head.  He didn’t know what to say.  He wanted to ask her what the Minutemen had decided, but figured it didn’t really matter.  The matter was done and over with and he was fucking glad for it.

     “I just remembered something,” Nora said after a bit more silence, twisting to look up at him.

     “Hmm?”

     “Tomorrow is Shaun’s birthday.  He wants to be measured.”

     “Measured?”

     “His height.  He thinks he’s getting taller.”

     “You’re willing to…?” Hancock waved his hand absently and Nora grimaced.

     “He’s going to do it himself if I don’t,” she said, “I figure that if he has to come to terms with – with maybe being the same...I should be there for him.”

     “You’re a great mother, you know that?”

     She gave him a wistful smile in the dark. “I had good role models,” she said, “And I’ve got a good support system.”

     She shifted up and kissed him, her warm body pressed against his. “I need a pick-me-up,” she murmured against his lips, “Please tell me you’ve got something good stashed away.”

     “Picked up some of Fred’s stock while we were out.”

     “Perfect.”

     Fifteen minutes and two inhalers later, she was asleep in his arms, her chest rising and falling in a slow, even cadence.  When he noticed she was out, Hancock chuckled to himself and let his head fall back on the pillow.

     “Lightweight."

 

 

     Nora squinted at the ruler, double-checking the numbers in her head.  Fifty-seven inches, which meant –

     “What’s it say?” Shaun asked, standing stock still as he turned his eyes up to his mother.  Nora blinked and took a deep breath, then set the pencil back on the shelf.

     “You’re four foot nine, Shaun.”

     There was a beat of silence and then a grin split Shaun’s face as he stepped away from the wall.

     “Really?”

     “Really.  Happy Birthday, sweetheart.”

     Shaun’s grin widened and he threw his arms around her. “I _grew_ a whole inch in two months!”

     “Yeah, it’s no wonder your pants don’t fit you anymore,” Nora replied, hugging him against the pang of sadness in her gut. “I thought maybe they had just shrunk.”

     “I’m not going to be a kid forever!”

     She kissed the top of his head and gave him one last squeeze. “Won’t be long before you’re taller than me.”

     “A lot of people are taller than you, Mom.”

     “Thanks for reminding me, kid,” Nora said, “Why don’t you go share the news with everyone?”

     Shaun nodded vigorously and bolted out the door, Dogmeat hot on his heels.  Nora let herself collapse on the couch and closed her eyes, trying to process this new development.  She hadn’t gotten very far when someone knocked on the door frame.

     “Professor.”

     She sat up, hoping for a moment that Deacon was back, but instead, James poked his head in.

     “Oh.  It’s you.”

     James sighed. “Well, I’ve had worse greetings, I guess.”

     “Sorry,” Nora said sheepishly, “I was just hoping Deacon was back.  He usually leaves with a proper goodbye.”

     “Well, I’m pretty sure this is from him,” James answered, sliding into the living room and taking a seat across from her. “I was doing some housekeeping and found this in a dead drop.”

     He dug around in his pack and pulled out a package, a heavy rectangle wrapped in old newspapers and brown string.  Nora glanced down at the papers and let her jaw drop a bit.

     “I’m assuming that’s you,” James said as Nora carefully pulled the wrapping off the packaged, smoothing the yellowing paper on her lap.  It was a copy of the _Boston Bugle_ , dated from the summer of ’76.  The headline read _Winter gang member arrested in local shooting_ ; below it was a smudged black and white photo of Nora and Nick Valentine, the two leaving the emergency department of Mass Bay.  Nick had his head down, face shadowed by his fedora, while Nora walked beside him with her arm looped through his.

     “Shit, this is – this is from when that bastard shot Jenny,” Nora whispered, dumbfounded. “Those damn reporters followed me all the way into Concord.”

     “Jenny?”

     “Jennifer Lands,” Nora said, “Nick’s fiancé.  She was a friend of mine, I actually set them up…”

     “Nick?  As in Nick Valentine, the synth?”

     “The synth you know was made using this guy’s memories and consciousness,” Nora said, tapping the photo with one finger. “It’s a long story, but like everything in my life, it involved the Institute.”

     “That’s weird.”

     “It was very confusing for me when I first left the vault,” Nora agreed, “Nick was probably the closest thing I had to a best friend back then.  How the hell did Deacon…?”

     “Must have dug through the archives or something.”

     “I didn’t even know he knew where the archives were; hell, I don’t.”

     “Well, I think the wrapping was just sort of a tag,” James replied, “What’s the book?”

     Nora frowned and picked up the book that had been wrapped in the newspaper.  It was a small hardback, the cloth cover remarkably well-preserved.  She could see the ghost of gold lettering along the spine and front, but couldn’t make out any of what it said.  She flipped it open and thumbed through the pages.

     “Poetry,” she said, “Nothing I recognize, though…”

     A small scrap of paper fluttered out and onto her lap.  Nora picked it up and unfolded it.

 

_Prof. –_

_Sorry I had to run without saying goodbye.  Duty calls._

_Thought you might like these.  They were some of my favorites, especially 116.  Read it to Hancock (maybe after he’s had a few Mentats) and commit it to memory._

_I don’t blame you for retiring.  You deserve it more than anyone.  You did us good while you were in and I’m actually kind of glad I got to call you “boss”.  It was fun.  I’ll miss murdering a bunch of things everywhere I go._

_See you around._

_-D._

     Nora reread the words two or three times before bunching up the paper and throwing it angrily at the wall.

     “Selfish twat,” she muttered, “That asshole stalked me for months, then popped into my life, let me get attached, nearly got killed at Bunker Hill, followed me into the Institute…”

     James wasn’t sure what to say.  Nora pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed.

     “You haven’t seen any sign of him?”

     “Nothing but that,” James said, “Maybe he’ll turn up in a few weeks.”

     Nora doubted it but only nodded dumbly. “No other word on Liam Binet?”

     “Nada,” James answered, “I’m going to keep looking, though.”

     “I hate loose ends,” Nora replied, “Everything needs to be tied up nice and neat.”

     “Eh, that’s life,” James said, then stood and slung his pack over his shoulder. “You sticking around here for a while?”

     Nora shook her head. “We’re moving over to the Castle for a while.  Hancock needs to be closer to Goodneighbor and I’ve got a to-do list about nine miles long.  Where are you headed?”

     James stopped at the door and frowned. “It might be a breach of security to tell you.”

     “James, I swear to God, if you start spouting that loyalty and security bullshit at me --”

     “Easy, woman, I’m kidding,” James replied, laughing and holding up his hands. “Charon’s giving me some more survival lessons, then I’m tracking down a Courser.”

     “They found one?” Nora asked, eyes widening. “Where?”

     “They didn’t find one, just some rumors floating down the grapevine,” James said, “I’m going to go check it out, see if I can get anything concrete before sending out a heavy.”

     “Be careful.  Those Coursers don’t play around.”

     “I will tuck tail and run at the first sign of danger, Mom.”

     Nora snorted. “If I were your mother, you wouldn’t be leaving this settlement.”

     “Fair enough.  See you later.”

     Nora waved him off and sat back on the couch, the book Deacon had left her in her lap.  She flipped open the cover and turned to the title page.  It read _Shakespeare’s Sonnets_ above a faded drawing of a rose in bloom; a chunk had been torn off the very bottom of the page.  Nora ran her fingers along the recent-looking tear, anger and sadness bubbling in her stomach.

     “Deacon, you stupid jerk,” she whispered to herself, closing the book and setting it aside.  She picked up the crumpled note and smoothed it out, then stashed it and the old newspaper in the same safe where she kept Nate’s wedding band, her son’s holotape, and all the other nostalgic bits and pieces she’d held onto.  She locked it firmly and spun the combination lock, then stood, mentally brushed herself off, and left to do her chores.


	54. Surreal

     “If you insist on going out on your own, then you should take this.”

     Charon handed James a small folio of some sort.  James frowned and took it, unfolding it to discover it was a giant map, laminated in yellowing plastic and giving him a full run-down of the prewar east coast.

     “You people act like I’m leaving forever,” James replied, “I promise, I’m not.  Nora feeds me; she can be damn sure she hasn’t seen the last of me.”

     Charon made a small noise of exasperation. “Do you know how to read latitude and longitude?”

     “Lati-what?”

     “I’ll take that as a no,” Charon replied, “It’s quite simple.  See these lines?”

     James nodded. “Kind of hard to miss.”

     “Latitude is the horizontal line.  Longitude is vertical.  Each point where they intersect is a coordinate.”

     “How does this help me in the field?”

     Charon scowled at him. “If you don’t know where you are, how will you find your way to safety, or call for help?”

     “I have my Pip-Boy map.”

     “Which is almost useless without GPS satellites unless you happen to be back around D.C.,” Charon replied, “Shut up and listen, okay?  Each coordinate is called a degree.  Degrees range from 49 to 69 miles long, so they’re further divided into minutes and seconds.”

     “This involves math, doesn’t it?”

     “Math that you should have learned around age six, yes,” Charon snapped, “There are sixty minutes in each degree and sixty seconds inside each minute.”

     He pointed to a small outcropping of land halfway up the coast of the map. “That’s Fort Independence.  The coordinates are roughly 42 degrees, 20 minutes, and 17 seconds north --”

     He traced the lines with one meaty, callused finger, then followed with another until they met over the Castle.

     “ – and 71 degrees, zero minutes, and 40 seconds west.  Understand?”

     James glanced at the map, head tilted, and nodded. “That’s nifty.”

     “Yes, the system of cartography and navigation that humankind has used since the third century B.C. is quite nifty,” Charon replied dryly, “This map should make it easy to determine your coordinate location, if you use prewar points of interest, monuments, and so on.  But you can also use the position of the sun and a marine chronometer --”

     “Okay, that’s too much at the moment,” James replied, “I’m not planning on even leaving the Commonwealth right now.”

     “That map has survived with me since before the bombs dropped,” Charon said seriously, “It’s how I kept us from walking into the ocean when we were in Florida and how I got us to the Commonwealth.  Do not lose it or ruin it and it may save your life.”

     James glanced down at the folded map.  On the outside fold was a photo of a prewar car, the top down as it carried its four occupants down a one-lane road.  _Roadside America – See our great country the way it should be seen!_

     Several questions about why Charon had been carrying a tourist map around when the bombs fell rose in his mind.  He tried to imagine his massive former bodyguard crammed into the front seat of a car, cruising along a highway with his red hair blowing in the wind, a pretty, lipsticked wife in the passenger seat and a pair of kids in the back, but the images were too odd to process.  He wanted to ask but he knew Charon would violate his own conditioning and stab an employer before he gave up that kind of information.

     “Thanks, Charon,” he said, shaking away the questions. “I appreciate it.”

     “When are you leaving?”

     “First thing in the morning.”

     “Then we have time for some marksmanship training.  Get your weapon.”

     James gave him a mock salute.  “Yes, sir.”

     “Shut up, James.”

 

     “Come on, Mom, it’s almost dark,” Shaun complained, tugging at her shirt. “We can finish it tomorrow.”

     “There’s only a few feet left,” Nora replied, dipping her paintbrush back into the can and sloshing it onto the side of the Red Rocket. “I’ll be done in ten minutes.  You don’t have to wait on me, anyway; head on home.”

     “I’m hungry,” Shaun whined, tugging harder. “Let’s go eat.”

     Nora sighed and set her paintbrush down. “Alright, alright,” she said, “Let me put this stuff away and we’ll go.”

     “I got it,” Cait interjected, poking her head out of the station. “You should go clean up and change.”

     “I’ll wait until --”

     “Mom, you smell like sweat and paint,” Shaun said, “I don’t want that at the dinner table.”

     Nora gave him a weird look. “You’re a smart-ass.”

     “He’s just bein’ honest,” Cait replied, winking at him. “Go on.  There’s some of my old stuff back there you can borrow.”

     Nora eyed them for a moment, but shook her head and did as she was told.  Cait had rigged herself a private bathroom in the back of the Red Rocket, a luxury afforded by a rainwater cistern on the roof and lots of salvaged pipes.  Nora hopped under the warm spray of water, gratefully washing away the splattered paint and grime.  As she was rinsing her hair, she heard the door open and shut and a pair of boots thudded across the tile.

     “Cait?”

     “Nah, it’s just me, love.”

     Nora turned the knobs and peeked around the curtain. “John?  What’re you doing down here?”

     “Cait told me to come get you.”

     “Come get me?  Why didn’t she just --?”

     “They’re planning something up at Sanctuary,” Hancock replied, tossing her a towel. “They think they’re being sneaky, but they aren’t.”

     “Planning what?  Where’s Shaun?”

     “I think Shaun’s the ringleader,” Hancock replied, eyes roaming over her body as she toweled off. “Looks like he and Cait ditched you down here and then made up some excuse to get me out of the way.”

     “Shaun told me I needed to shower here because I smelled.”

     Hancock let out a small laugh and shook his head, leaned against an old dresser in the corner.  He had his arms crossed and a bemused expression on his face, but Nora could feel the way he was watching her.

     “What’s in the dresser?” she asked, “Cait said she’d left some stuff in there I could borrow.”

     Hancock turned and opened the drawers, then grimaced. “There’s _one_ thing in here.”

     “What?”

      He pulled out a folded bundle of cloth and handed it to her.  It was a prewar sundress, off-white and patterned with little blue flowers.  Nora grimaced.

     “I will eat my hat if Cait has ever worn that.”

     “I told you something was up.”

     Nora shook her head and slipped into the dress, feeling oddly exposed in the swishy fabric that floated around her knees.  The only time post-bombs she had worn a dress had been after getting mauled by the mutant hound, when pants hadn’t fit comfortably over her dozens of stitches.

     “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

     Nora hummed an answer as Hancock leaned in and kissed her, hands sliding to rest possessively just above her backside. 

     “How long do you think we need to wait down here for whatever they’re planning?”

     “No idea, but I know something we can do to pass the time.”

     It was then that the radio, which had been playing “Butcher Pete” in the background until recently, mentioned Sanctuary Hills.  Nora pulled back and cocked her head to listen.

     “…rumor has reached me here in Diamond City that two of our favorite Commonwealth kingpins, General Wilson of the Minutemen and Mayor Hancock of Goodneighbor, have finally decided to tie the knot…”

     “What the hell?” Hancock said, turning around. “What did that kid do?”

     “…now it’s seven-thirty, which means I’m supposed to remind them – get yourselves back up the hill and enjoy your evening.  This evening’s songs are dedicated to you.”

     “I think Shaun somehow managed to orchestrate us a wedding,” Nora said, dumbfounded.

     “Well, damn,” Hancock replied, staring in surprise as Magnolia’s “It’s Just You” began playing. “Kid’s crafty, ain’t he?”

     He looped an arm around her waist as they left the Red Rocket, wandering easily back into Sanctuary.  Someone had pulled all the picnic tables together and hung a mass of lights – which, Nora suspected, were salvaged white Christmas lights – over them, while lanterns lined the sidewalk.  The smell of roasted brahmin hung in the air and Nora noticed that Nick and Piper had snuck in at some point.  Nick waved and a general cheer rippled through the crowd as they approached; Nora gripped Hancock’s hand and felt her cheeks burn.

     “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little attention,” he whispered in her ear, squeezing her waist lightly. “Ya’ can’t be.  A performer, lawyer, and general like you?”

     “Those are all costumes of some sort,” Nora whispered back, “It’s not…me.  As me.  Or whatever.  There’s a reason Nate and I got married with just our families there.”

     “This is our family,” Hancock replied, “Most of it, anyway.”

     She swallowed a reply as Shaun came bouncing up the sidewalk, carrying Anne on one hip, grinning from ear to ear.

     “Do you like it?”

     “Sweetheart, it’s wonderful,” she said, “How did you do this?”

     “Everybody helped,” Shaun replied, “It was my idea, but we all put it together.”

     Nora hugged him to her, acutely aware of the subtle difference in his height as he leaned into her.  Time was moving too fast for her and taking everything else along with it.

     “Time to tie the knot, as they say,” she said, “You ready, John?”

     “I’ve been ready, love.”

     The ceremony felt almost surreal, standing on the bare foundation of her neighbor’s old house as Preston played the role of officiant.  Nat King Cole sung in the background and her new groom watched her with coal-black eyes under the brim of an ancient tricorn.  She stared back at him, an odd feeling of fullness in her chest, so caught up in her thoughts that she didn’t notice Preston had finished until Hancock squeezed her hands.

     “It’s official, Sunshine.”

     She grinned and kissed him, throwing both arms around his neck, all embarrassment at being the center of attention forgotten.

     “I love you.”

     “Of course you do.”

 

     George twirled his drink in one hand, glancing up at Nora and Hancock, entwined on the impromptu dance floor, grinning like idiots at each other.  He hadn’t seen her look so happy since their prewar days.

     “She’s a lovely girl,” Martha said to him, leaning over and smiling at him.

     “She is,” George agreed, “She and Hancock are good for each other.”

     Martha grimaced and shook her head. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to calling him that.  He’s always been my Johnny.  Probably shouldn’t say that out loud, huh?”

     “My mother called me Georgie in public until I was sixteen,” George said, “It’s a mom thing, I think.”

     Martha laughed. “I guess so.”

     George smiled as Nora laid her head on Hancock’s shoulder, eyes closed, red hair glinting under the lights.  The song continued as they moved together, easy and fluid, a natural and inseparable pair.

     _I’m just a fool, a fool in love with you…_

     Hancock waved off the last of the guests as he strode up the front walk.  The house was dark except for a single lamp lit in their bedroom; he grinned to himself and shut the door firmly behind him.  Besides Dogmeat and the kittens, asleep in a pile of fur on the couch, the house was empty, and his new bride was waiting for him.

     “Sunshine, I’m home,” he sang as he tread down the hallway.  When he got to the door of their bedroom, he stopped, his breath catching in his throat.

     “Good evening, Mr. Mayor.”

     Nora was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in a long black coat and silver scarf he hadn’t seen in ages.  She crossed one leg over the other, her dress riding up just enough to give him a peek of the lace nylon around her thigh.  She tilted her head and peered up at him from under the silk fedora, gray eyes smoldering.

     “Long time, no see, Shroud,” he rasped as heat pooled in his groin.

     “You kept me waiting.”

     “My bad.  How can I make it up to you?”

     She leaned back on her palms and gave him a sly grin. “Sit down and I’ll teach you some manners.”

     He did as he was told, seating himself in the chair she nodded to. “How do you plan to --”

     “Shush,” she scolded and stood, letting the coat fall off her shoulders.  It landed with a rustle on the ground and Hancock felt suddenly much warmer.

     “No talking during the lesson.”

 

**Three Months Later**

“Hey, General.  Someone’s on the radio for you.”

     Nora looked up from her paperwork and frowned. “For me?”

     “Yeah, says he’s a friend,” Matthew said, “Told me to hurry because his connection is spotty.”

     Nora nodded and followed Matthew out to the radio console, taking the microphone and headset he offered.

     “This is Nora.”

     There was a scratching on the other end, like fabric rubbing over the microphone, then a loud sigh.

     “Oh, thank God,” a male voice said, “Nora, it’s James.  I need your help.”

     “What’s going on?” she asked, standing up straighter and waving Preston over. “Do I need to send a vertibird?”

     “NO!” James shouted, loud enough that Nora jumped at the burst of noise in her ear. “Fuck no, don’t send that.  That’s the last thing I need.”

     “Then what do you need?  Where are you?”

     “I’m west a ways,” James replied, “Look, I can explain everything when you get here.”

     “When I get _where_?”

     “Meet me in Bradberton in three days.  Do you know where that is?”

     “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

     “You got a pen or something?  I can give you the coordinates.  Charon taught me how to do that.”

     “Hang on,” Nora said, signing to Matthew for a writing utensil.  He searched through the detritus on his console and handed her a ballpoint pen.  She clicked it open and scribbled on the back of her hand.

     “Shoot.”

     James rattled off a series of numbers, a specific set of coordinates to the west, as he’d said.

     “I need you to meet me there in three days,” he said, “It’s right by the old Nuka World theme park.  Bring Hancock and Preston, but come in stealth.  People are watching.”

     “Who’s watching?”

     “A big-ass group of raiders,” James answered, “I’m in charge but if they see you guys, they’ll mutiny.”

     “Raiders?” Nora repeated, “You’re in charge?  What the hell is going on?”

     “I’ll explain when you get here,” James repeated, “Just be there, okay?  Don’t let anyone see you coming.”

     “James --”

     “I gotta go, he’ll get suspicious if I’m gone too long.”

     “Who?  Gone from where?”

     “See you in three days,” James said, then the line went dead.  Preston raised an eyebrow at her.

     “Do I want to know?”

     “Raiders,” Nora answered with a sigh, “He wouldn’t give me any details, but he wants me, you, and Hancock there in three days.”

     She showed him the coordinates on her hand and he nodded. “We need to get moving tonight then.  That’s going to be a three-day walk.”

     “Lovely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END!!!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed that ride and the sneak peek to part 3. It'll be around soon. Thank you to all of you who have read and commented and left kudos; I love hearing from you all. THANK YOU :-)


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